


Lyra, Burning / Bending the Light / Lodestar

by irisbleufic



Series: Lyra, Burning 'Verse (& Related Occurrences) [1]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: 1880s, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, American History, Astronomy, Blacksmithing, Canon Compliant, Constellations, Country & Western, Death, Dreams, F/M, Films, First Kiss, First Time, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hauntings, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Idiots in Love, Illustrated, Illustrations, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Magic Realism, Minor Character Death, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Psychology, Queer Themes, Science, Science Fiction, Science Husbands, Time Travel, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3444437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kindness of strangers, the absence of strangers, the nebula-bright traces they leave behind—these things mean more the farther you drift from home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lyra, Burning

**Author's Note:**

> My anon pushed this challenge one step further; after writing [**a 1955 take**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3127463), [**a 1938 take**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3266666), and [**a 1985 take**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3298754), they've asked if I thought I could make the pairing work in 1885. This is fragile territory on account of Clara, who is a person I _like_ ; after cycling through possibilities, I settled on the option that was, for me, the most challenging to execute (I hope that I've treated this scenario with the respect it's due). This tale is many different things, including an almost complete re-working of the third film, but, to my surprise, it is above all a ghost story with both stargazing and fascinatingly obscure U.S. social history in it. It’s my hope that anyone reading this might learn something. Some snippets of dialogue are borrowed from the film, but altered.

**September 3, 1885**

Spending the night in Seamus McFly's barn hadn't been as bad as Marty had feared it would be, minus the fact that there was horse-shit on his tennis shoes, baby-piss on his 1950s polyester cowboy trousers, and a permanent layer of dust caked over the rest of him. He'd done his best to wash up with the bucket of cold water Maggie had hauled out with a pinched, reproachful expression before breakfast, but he didn't feel cleaner.

Seamus had apologized nonstop while they'd walked to the railroad tracks, and Marty now understood where his dad's former approach to bully-placation had come from. He'd felt like reassuring the poor guy he wasn't going to punch him just because there hadn't been four-star service on his farm; instead, he'd thanked him and hugged him, which had got him a weirdly emotional goodbye wave. Seamus knew something about the situation wasn't ordinary, knew it like blood couldn't help but know blood. Marty had shoved his hands in his pockets and fled.

Marty hadn't exactly planned on running into this generation's version of the Tannen Gang, either, but by now he should've expected it: Marty McFly walks into a bar, and some doofus with a name likely ending in _-iff_ is _not_ talking to him. It's a pity he hadn't learned to leave well enough alone once informed of that fact, because this time it had gotten him far worse than pushed around. He'd never been shot at before, and he'd also never come within an inch of his life of being lynched.

Marty _had_ known on some level that Doc was a complete bad-ass, but the last two times he'd seen Doc with a gun it had been that little family heirloom of a pearl-handled pistol that he couldn't shoot worth a damn. Eight months in the nineteenth century had not only made a competent blacksmith of him, but also a terrifyingly good sharpshooter. The necessary proximity to people, the symbiosis he'd formed with them that would've been nearly impossible in his former modern life, had also filed the edges off a few of Doc's other awkward traits. Marty had never known him to embrace so warmly and with such ease, and he got the impression neither one of them had wanted to let go.

The clothes Marty was wearing now were an improvement—heavy leather cattleman's boots, brown rough-twill trousers, a plain cotton shirt, and a fine ornately woven poncho—but the long-john undies made him overheat and took some getting used to. By the time Mayor Hubert left them in peace and they'd decided not to meet the school-teacher at the train station, Marty itched all over with a trapped layer of sweat and grime. Doc's ranting on the illogical nature of love at first sight had gotten under Marty's skin almost as much, although Marty's grand-standing on the subject of Jennifer had sounded unconvincing even to _him_. They were separated by a chasm of decades and experience now, and he wondered if there'd be any recovering from that. Assuming _this_ time he even got back.

They fiddled with Doc's preliminary calculations for a while, and Marty even assented to a beaker of Doc's attempt at iced tea. It distracted Marty from the fact that Hill Valley's well-water was filthy, and sugar, unwieldy as rock-candy and precious as silver, was his new best friend. He scratched the back of his neck, swilling what was left of his drink. Doc smiled, eyes crinkling, and Marty would've hugged him again if he hadn't been so self-conscious about the fact he was filthy.

"You can have the rest, Doc," Marty said, offering the beaker. "I appreciate the clean clothes, but they're not gonna do me much good if _I'm_ not clean, so I was thinking of heading over to the bath-house. Uh," he muttered, "if I can figure out how much it costs. If you'll let me pay you back."

Doc took the tea and drank it down, waving one hand at Marty. "Don't be absurd," he said, indicating the drawer Marty had seen him raid for cash earlier. "It's immaterial. Just take a few dollars from the desk like we did earlier to pick up those clothes. In fact, once you're done with the bath, go get _more_ clothes—another pair of trousers, couple of shirts, sets of underwear. Laundry is a big, annoying to-do around here."

"Thanks," Marty said, and did as he'd been told while Doc pored over his work. "I appreciate it. And I _will_ pay you back, once you've taught me how to shoe horses. I'll pull my weight."

"Get out of here, Marty," said Doc, half smiling, not bothering to look up at him. "I hate to say it, but you _are_ much less than pleasing right now in the, let's call it, olfactory sense."

 _Jeez, Doc. Thanks_ , Marty thought, closing the door behind him. _You might as well just have said I stink._ He got fewer confused looks than he'd received earlier as he made his way down the street, although he was still a curiosity by default of being a stranger in town. The bath-house proprietor was talking to his other current customer, a man Marty recognized. _Oh, right,_ he thought, tipping his hat to the proprietor before taking it off and handing over his cash. _That's the bartender._

Marty didn't care for undressing around strangers, much less around _family_ , but he just had to suck it up and deal. The bartender's eyes flicked from Marty's midsection up to Marty's face as Marty stepped into the welcome hot water and sat down opposite him. He was a hundred years back in time, stark naked. The stakes didn't get higher than this; they didn't get more ridiculous, either.

"Martin Eastwood, you said your name was?" asked the bartender, with a cordial nod. "Or was it—Clint, Cline? You had another 'un crammed into that stammer of yours, didn't you?"

It took Marty's heart-rate a few seconds to come down from hearing someone in _this_ time and place call him _Cline_ (too much like _Klein_ ). "Clint Martin Eastwood, in fact," he said shakily, scrubbing down his arms with the dodgy-looking rag and sliver of lye soap he'd been provided. "At your service. _Sir_. I don't really go by my first name, so—" the bartender was giving him a perplexed look, so Marty pressed on, scrubbing his chest "—so you can just call me Marti—I mean, _Marty_. Everyone does."

The bartender nodded, his expression softening; he felt sorry for Marty, and that was better than the alternative. "Name's Chester," he said, offering Marty his hand. "Chester Briggs. My father, he came out here in ought-six. We've been runnin' that saloon ever since. Come back on by for a proper Hill Valley welcome, and tell Emmett to tag along. How's it you came to know him?"

Marty finished scrubbing his face and splashed it clean, starting in on his hair. "Doc and I, we, uh—that's his nickname, anyway, long story, old joke, all those gadgets he tinkers with—both came from out east. I lost my family, so he became sort of like—my mentor? Yeah. We parted ways a while. I wanted to seek my fortune, that kinda thing." Marty dunked his head underwater to rinse his hair, and Chester smirked his amusement. "As you can see, that didn't work out so well. At least not for me." He spat soapy, gritty water and made his best attempt at a winning shrug.

"Insofar as Missouri's out east, sure," said Chester. "Emmett said as much when he rolled in eight months back. Ain't a year passes when some fool _doesn't_ come out here with an eye for minin' or to lay some rail. Chews you up and spits you out, doesn't it? Chews you up _good_. At least Emmett's one of them jack-of-all-trades. You'll make a solid 'prentice smithy if you can settle."

 _Thank God you didn't say Utah or something, Doc,_ Marty thought, flinching as the proprietor came over and dumped a bucket of cold water over his head before giving Chester a stern look. "This ain't a tea-house like they got in Saint Louie," he said. "Time's up."

"Fine, it's fine," Marty insisted, yanking his towel off one of the rusty hooks driven into the bath-house tent's wooden corner support. "I'm clean. Thanks for the warning. _Sir_. I'll be going."

"Next time, if you pay double, he'll tolerate the chit-chat," said Chester. "Be honest with me now, Clem. This is the closest to a tea-house this here sorry town's got. You can't heart-to-heart drunk."

"You can heart-to-heart somewhere else," Clem told Chester, and then glanced at Marty. "You got in a scuffle with Buford, didn't you, young feller? Been hearin' it all over. Best watch your back."

"So I've been told," Marty muttered, shimmying into his clothes, still damp. "I'll see you around."

A dollar for the bath, four dollars for more clothes. The second set of trousers was going to be too long, he could already tell, and the only shirts left were the fucking _ugliest_ shade of tan Marty had ever seen. At least the underwear all looked the same, and at least you didn't show them off.

"Why haven't you got your hat on?" Doc demanded when Marty came back in just after dusk. "It gets chilly in the evenings this time of year. You'll catch cold, and believe me when I say getting sick is the _last_ thing you want out here. I had a cough for three months. I'm not sure I would've fought it off as well as I did if not for those twenty-first century immune-system enhancements."'

Marty sighed, pulling the door shut behind him, and set aside his hat and poncho, which he hadn't even bothered to put back on, along with the brown-wrapped paper parcel containing his new clothes. "With all due respect, Doc," he sighed, "I can't see why you think this place is so great."

"In spite of the drawbacks, it's a welcome change," Doc admitted, finally setting aside his sheaf of papers. He was over in one of the solidly carved wooden chairs near the bed, and it was then Marty noticed he'd set up some kind of small cot with fresh blankets and a coarse-looking pillow. At least they'd be spared _that_ awkwardness, although Doc's bed looked big enough for two grown humans to share without necessarily encroaching on each other's space. "A different pace of life. I have something resembling friends here, an actual _community_. I never had that...before."

 _You had me, you_ have _me,_ Marty wanted to say, but he knew that one person (and one dog) in all the world didn't necessarily make a village. He nodded, coming over to sit in the chair across from Doc's, and set about tugging off his boots. "I wanted to thank you for the letter, Doc."

"You were kind enough to write one for me thirty years ago," Doc said, "and it saved my life. The least I could do was return the favor and hopefully save _yours_. It's why I didn't want you coming back here. At least in doing that, I could get you back home. Now, you're just stuck again."

"Yeah, but I'm not stuck alone," Marty said, setting his boots aside, yawning. "God, I'm beat."

"It took me a bit of squabbling with the carpenter," said Doc, reaching to pat the cot, "but I had this made for a rainy day. It's not as if I make a habit of entertaining guests, but—case in point."

"I appreciate it," Marty said, unbuttoning his shirt. If sleeping in your underwear was the done thing around here, then he wasn't going to be shy about it. "It's a palace in comparison to where I slept last night, trust me. I think there was still straw and pig-feed stuck in my hair."

"I won't be up for much longer," Doc said, "and I'll try not to disturb you. Good night."

Marty stripped out of his trousers and crawled into the cot. The bow of it hurt his already aching shoulders, and it took him a while to get comfortable. The soothing sway of it once he'd settled, and the scratch of Doc's ink-pen on handmade paper, eventually lulled him to sleep.

He dreamed of a dark-haired woman with even darker eyes, a solemn figure who looked nothing like his mother. She smiled in spite of the sadness she carried like a shield against the low-hanging twilight.

 _My wedding ring_ , she said, pointing at the clear, star-fretted sky overhead. _In Lyra_.

 _I don't understand what you mean_ , Marty said, sitting down beside her. _Show me?_

She handed him a shimmering glass disc, fingers smudging the convex planes of it.

 _It depends which way you bend the light_ , she said. _See to it the lens doesn't break_.

 

 

**September 4, 1885**

The next morning, Marty felt better-rested than he'd felt on waking surrounded by livestock and fodder. He carried the hazy remnants of his dream only as far as breakfast; Doc left the tea warm this time, for which Marty was almost grateful. They ate toast hot off Doc's latest invention, and Doc had half a jar of priceless homemade pear butter left from when the grocer's wife had given him some in exchange for shoeing her horse. The refrigeration machine definitely had its uses.

Speaking of horses, rounding up four beyond the two Doc owned was difficult as _fuck_. The grocer's wife was kind enough to lend the only two she and her husband had; Chester lent yet another. A trip to the Mayor's modest storefront office ( _No finished courthouse_ , Marty thought, _not yet_ ) resulted in Marty pacing out front with his arms folded beneath his poncho while Doc talked and gesticulated and _talked._ Half an hour later, he emerged with access to a single steed from town-hall stalls.

"I keep promising him innovations on the courthouse," Emmett said. "Here's hoping I can deliver!"

"I don't think you'll have easy access to used pinball-machine parts out here, Doc," Marty replied.

They drove the horses hard, as hard as they could drive them without risking injury. It was a thrill to ride like that, sitting beside Doc atop the DeLorean, with no guarantee they wouldn't be flung sidelong from their perch. The hacked speedometer might not even be accurate.

"Twenty-four!" Marty shouted above the roar of the wind. They just weren't accelerating enough.

"It's no use, Marty!" Doc yelled back. "Even the fastest horse in the world can't run more than thirty-five, forty miles an hour!" He eased up on the whip. "Let's get these babies back home."

It took them a couple of hours to get the DeLorean hauled back to Doc's shop-slash-residence, as well as the horses calmed down, watered, and back to their respective owners. At Doc's behest, Marty made a trip to the saloon to ask Chester for a bottle of his strongest spirit; the bottle of tequila that got shoved under Marty's nose must've been one-fifty proof. Once upon another timeline, Lorraine had liked her vodka strong enough to peel paint, and Marty knew the whiff all too well.

"Bartender says that's the strongest stuff they've got," Marty told Doc from his position in the DeLorean driver's seat, watching Doc pour tequila in the fuel tank. He considered doing a shot.

"Try it, Marty," Doc said, although there was more desperation than confidence in his tone.

 _This doesn't sound too great_ , Marty thought, cringing through the stalling and bubbling. _Shit_.

Doc frowned, wracking his brain for an answer that wouldn't come. "Needs more gas," he said.

 _That_ was when the fuel-injection manifold blew out, and, along with it, their hopes of success. They rejected any number of ideas that tumbled out of Doc's mouth, from rolling the DeLorean down a steep hill to using ice on the lake in winter. And then, beyond the window, a train whistled.

The train engineer told them about pushing fifty-five in a steam engine. He told them about somebody named Frank Fargo who got one up to _seventy_. He told them with a straight expanse of track and no dead weight to drag and fire hotter than blazes, they might be able to hit ninety.

When he told them the next train would arrive on Monday at eight o'clock in the morning, Marty thought, _Of course that's when it is. So now he gets to choose between committing another crime and getting shot in the back. I thought these scenarios couldn't get any more FUBAR than_ —

"Here," Doc said, jabbing the map on the wall with his index finger once they were back inside the station. "This spur runs off the main line, three miles down to Clayton Ravine. There's a long stretch of track that will still exist in 1985. This is where we'll push the DeLorean with the locomotive." He grinned, leaning against the wall. "Funny, but this map calls Clayton Ravine _Shonash Ravine_. Must be an old Indian name for it. It's perfect. Nice long run that goes clear across the bridge and over the ravine. You know, over near that Hilldale housing development."

"Right, Doc," Marty sighed, wearily pointing, "but according to this map, there is no bridge."

Just to prove a point, Doc had them ride the three miles out to that very spot. At first sight of the tracks ending in a perilous dead-end drop right over the edge of the ravine, Marty felt like he ought to be congratulating himself, but what he _really_ felt was dread. He looked at the clear blue sky over the canyon-vast expanse and wondered what it must look like at night. In his dream—

"Well, Doc," Marty said, abruptly cutting off his uneasy internal monologue. "We can scratch that idea. I mean, we can't wait around a year and a half for this thing to get finished."

"Marty, it's perfect!" Doc exclaimed. "You're just not thinking fourth-dimensionally!"

"Right, right," Marty muttered in discouragement. "I have a real problem with that."

"Don't you see?" Doc asked, trying to reassure him. "The bridge will exist in 1985. It's safe and still in use. Therefore, as long as we get the DeLorean up to eighty-eight miles per hour before we hit the edge of the ravine, we'll instantaneously arrive at a point in time where the bridge is completed. We'll have track under us and coast safely across the ravine!"

"What about the locomotive?" Marty asked. He had a sinking feeling about the engine's fate.

"It'll be a spectacular wreck," replied Doc, grinning. "Too bad no one will be around to see it."

As if in echo of what Marty really felt like doing, someone in the distance behind them _screamed_.

" _Help me_!" shrieked the voice, plaintive now, but _strong._ Marty turned and saw a woman desperately trying to wrangle the horses pulling her buckboard under control. Hatted, dark-haired, lavender skirts flying. _Oh no_ , he thought. _Oh Jesus, no. Have the time-circuits fried my brain?_

"Great Scott!" Doc exclaimed, kicking his mount into action. " _Git_!" he shouted, and tore off.

" _Hyah_!" Marty shouted, prodding his horse with his heels. "Come _on_ , let's get moving here!"

What happened next was too horrifying to believe: swift, brutal, and completely beyond their control. Doc caught up with the runaway vehicle in time, his horse galloping at a fast enough clip to pull up alongside the buckboard. The ravine's edge loomed too close along the buckboard's opposite side for comfort; Marty opened his mouth to shout in warning, but he never got that far.  

Just as Doc attempted to persuade the woman— _Clara_ , Marty thought, _her name is Clara Clayton, and, oh God, are her eyes as dark as her hair?_ —to grab hold of him, to leap from her conveyance onto his horse, something went horribly wrong. Either Doc's hand slipped or Clara's slipped or her horses spooked even further, veering toward the brink. She fell from where she sat, skirts caught in the wheel-spoke, was _dragged_.

Doc shouted in alarm, but his utterance was lost; he slowed his horse only just _barely_ in time.

Marty heard the crash, saw the buckboard vanish into oblivion, and Clara Clayton along with it.

"We'll get help," he said numbly, tugging on the reins, and turned for town. "Doc, I'll ride—"

Marty saw Doc's expression when he wheeled his mount back from the edge, and, for the third or fourth time since his arrival, he was _genuinely_ afraid. "Rescue isn't what she needs now," Doc said, grave and pale; when Marty started for the edge to look, he blocked Marty's path. "Marty, _no_."

"Then I guess I should—I guess," Marty said, but he couldn't properly form words, because his eyes stung with helpless fury. "They must have people in town who take care of this kind of thing, right?"

"Ride to the Mayor," said Doc, too visibly shaken for comfort.  "Tell him we need Marshall Strickland; tell him to organize a detail of men."  When Marty attempted to ask who he meant by _Strickland_ , Doc cut him off.  "Marty, be quick about it, and then do me a favor: go back to the lab and _stay there_.  This is gruesome business, and I don't want you getting mixed up in it."

"I'm a witness, Doc," Marty protested, wiping the tears off his cheeks, but more fell in their place. He didn't _feel_ like he was crying, knew he could keep a level head in the face of this unexpected tragedy, but his body seemed to think otherwise (his hands were shaking). "I could be useful. I could _help_. What else should I tell them we need?"

Doc closed his eyes, shaking his head in despair. "Tools," he said. "Ropes, pulleys. Most of the wreck has tumbled farther down, but she's—" he swallowed, opening his eyes, and they glittered hard, bright "—Miss Clayton's body is caught on an a rocky outcrop about twenty feet down. We'll be able to retrieve her, give her a proper burial. You are _not_ to come back out here, Marty."

"Surely I can do something useful back in town," protested Marty, in frustrated defeat. "Get the address of her folks, write to them or something. Send a telegram. They've gotta know."

Emmett stared at the ground. "She didn't have any family," he replied. "I remember the Town Council saying that's part of what made her letter of application so attractive, in fact, back before I even knew her name. Coming out here is a dangerous undertaking, and, in the event of circumstances like these, there'd be nobody to miss her. Cholera took her parents back in seventy-nine. Late New Jersey outbreak."

"Don't think about it," Marty said, hardening his mind against against what he was hearing; if he didn't, his eyes would brim over again. "If there's an afterlife, then she's with them now. I know you probably don't hold with that, but it's the best I've got. I'm going," he added, and rode off.

Hubert took the news less like a bureaucrat who'd just been told one of his civil servants would need to be replaced before she'd even arrived and more like a man who'd just learned a distant, yet fondly-regarded relation had passed. He clapped Marty on the shoulder and thanked him for his trouble, reassuring him that he should leave this in the hands of the citizenry.

 _But I'm a citizen of Hill Valley, too,_ Marty wanted to say, watching the Mayor mount his horse. _Just a hundred years out of place, is all._ The moment Hubert told him to go warn the undertaker what was coming down the pipe, Marty felt dizzy. He waited until the Mayor had left; only then did he dismount, dash around the side of the building, and let himself be thoroughly, violently sick.

When the undertaker saw Marty and listened with glassy, implacable eyes to what he had to say, Marty knew that Doc was right. He couldn't handle this. All his life, he'd been distanced from the realities of death. For crying out loud, he was almost eighteen and hadn't even lost a grandparent yet. He'd never wish one of his teachers would fall over the ravine again, not even in jest.

For the next several hours, back at the lab (because that's what Doc's place _was_ , no matter the time or place or circumstance), Marty did the only shit he _could_ do in Doc's absence. He dusted off gadgets, he tried to make sense of Doc's ridiculous filing system, he tried to make heads or tails of how to get the fuel-thingy back inside the DeLorean—but to no avail.

He considered pulling one of the cloth-bound hardback books off Doc's shelf, thinking maybe if he finally sucked it up and read Jules Verne he'd miraculously find some answers, but how could he even hope to focus on something like that when all he could think of was how torn-up Doc must be to have to deal with this when collecting Clara Clayton was supposed to have been _his_ responsibility? If they'd just gone and met her, she'd never have rented the stupid buckboard, and she'd never—

 _This is history_ , Marty reminded himself. _Shonash Ravine becomes Clayton Ravine, and time ticks on just like it always has. The continuum is getting wise, maybe_ _—l_ _earning to protect itself from meddling. Your family should've been warning enough. No one gets a second chance like that without paying the price. This is the price you pay, Marty McFly, for getting mixed up in physics. This is the price Doc Brown pays for opening Pandora's Box._ He sat down on the edge of Doc's bed and flopped sideways, falling into an uneasy doze. He couldn't have been out for more than half an hour when he shuddered awake, alerted to someone else's presence by the creak of the door. He sat up, reaching instinctively for his hat.

Doc stood next to the refrigeration machine, his own hat clutched to his chest. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was trying not to wake you. It's been a long, hard day, and I didn't think you'd come back here and give the place a cleaning blitz. Marty, I can’t—that is— _thank you_. My civic existence here has grown complicated; I have responsibilities I simply can't shirk, and today I've paid the price for failing to follow through. No, even worse—Miss Clayton paid the price, she paid it with her _life_. The retrieval's taken care of, and I've seen to it her funeral is covered. There's to be a graveside service tomorrow afternoon, although I can't imagine many will be in attendance. Will you come, Marty? Perhaps enlist the sympathies of those decent, God-fearing Catholic ancestors of yours?"

"Seamus is the kind of guy who'd turn up for a stranger's funeral without having to be told twice, so, yeah," Marty said. "Of course. I'll send a message out there tomorrow morning. First thing." He started to rise, gripped by the need to go to Doc, to comfort him, to scratch at the smudge of blood across his cheek and wish it all away. He wanted to hold Doc again; he wanted to _forget_ —

Doc had picked something up off the desk, frowning intently. He came over to the bed and sat down beside Marty, rendering Marty's impulse moot. He held out the photograph so that Marty could look at it. "We're up to our _necks_ in serious shit this time," he said, tapping the tombstone inscription, handing the picture to Marty. "Part of me had hoped this event might forestall my doom, might give us more time, might have _some_ redeeming outcome, but all it amounts to is grief."

Instead of _HERE LIES EMMETT BROWN / DIED SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1885 / ERECTED IN ETERNAL MEMORY BY HIS BELOVED CLARA_ , the third line of the inscription had changed. Now it read, _ERECTED IN ETERNAL MEMORY BY HIS LOYAL COMPANION MARTY_. The shock of those words never lessened no matter how many times Marty read them through. Unless they worked something out, and worked it out _fast_ , Doc was a goner.

Marty handed the photo back to Doc, kicking out of his boots. He took off his poncho, shook it out, folded it, and draped it over the headboard. Without a word, he lay down, pushing at the covers till he could worm his feet and his legs beneath them. Dusk was falling, and he felt cold, disconsolate. If this came off more as a kid having a tantrum than a friend asking for comfort, then he couldn't have cared less. He closed his eyes, buried his face in one of the goose-down pillows, and sighed.

Doc took his time puttering around. Marty dozed and listened to the sounds he made, latching onto them like a lifeline. Scratch of pen to paper, sound of discarded boots, splash of water being poured into a bowl. Cloth on Marty’s face, damp and unexpected and _warm_ ; more sounds of water, of Doc scrubbing at his own skin, of setting the room to rights before blowing out the lamps. He climbed up from the foot of the bed, which was the only point of entry that didn't involve crawling over Marty in order to claim the side nearest the wall. Marty rolled over, eyes still closed, reaching. Doc pulled him close. Sleep found Marty fast after that, lulled him safe against Doc's heartbeat.

He dreamed of Clara, saw her hair hanging and her face bloodied, her fine dress torn. However, this was no vengeful specter; she stared calm and unblinking in the moonlight, silhouetted where she stood at the edge of the ravine. She beckoned to him, and then pointed up at the sky.

 _The light_ , she said sadly. _You won't see it now, not with a skewed lens. I've lost my ring._

 _I know, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,_ Marty told her, searching the stars; he thought he could just about discern a constellation from the pattern of her urgently insistent pointing. _But I still don't understand. Is it Lyra?_

 _You'll play for me tomorrow_ , she said. _Like Orpheus did, but you won't bring me back._

  _I know that story_ , Marty said. _We learned it in school. I bet you were a great teacher._

She nodded, brushed his cheek, and then said, _You risk glancing too insistently behind._

 

 

**September 5, 1885**

Marty woke to find himself sprawled alone in Doc’s bed. He turned his head at the sound of gentle snoring, amazed to discover that Doc had managed to cram himself in Marty’s tiny cot at some point during the night and had fallen fast asleep. Marty got up and went over to heat water for tea or coffee or whatever it was they’d be drinking that morning; tea was far easier to come by. After setting that in motion, he shoved his feet into his boots, put on his hat, and stepped outside.

There was a dark-skinned young man who Marty had seen running errands from shop to shop the day before. He had a messenger-bag, which had also led Marty to believe that perhaps he carried mail from the post office (if you could even _call_ it that) to recipients throughout town and on the outlying farms. Marty crossed the street and stuck his head in the grocery door; it turned out he was very much in luck. The young man was deep in conversation with the grocer's daughter.

"I'm sorry to intrude," Marty said, removing his hat, and nodded at the girl. "Ma'am. Sir," he added, addressing the young man, whose brows knit in consternation at Marty's address. "You carry messages, don't you? Run errands? Odd here-and-there stuff about town?"

"I do," said the young man, offering his hand to Marty. "Name's James, sir. James Wilson."

"Pleasure to meet you," Marty said, shaking James's hand, glancing back at the girl. "Miss Linton, would you happen to have a scrap of paper and a pen back there behind the register? I need to write something out, and I need to have Mr. Wilson deliver it to Seamus at the McFly farm."

James whistled. "That's a pretty little distance. Just so you know, I don't take credit."

"I know," Marty muttered, hastily scrawling with the implements Miss Linton had given him. "The day I arrived in these parts, I walked from there to the railroad track. Then followed the track in."

"Half a dollar for the rush, sir," said James, sounding concerned. "Is it somethin' ain't right?"

"I'll pay you a dollar if you set out _now_ ," Marty said, handing the pen back to Miss Linton. He patted the ink dry with his sleeve and folded the note in four. "Give it to Seamus _or_ Maggie, first person you see. Give it to the goddamn _baby_ if you have to." Marty coughed. "Er. _Ma'am_."

"It'll be there in under an hour," said James, and saluted him. "Mr. Eastwood, I'll ride hard."

Marty nodded, satisfied, and gave James a dollar on his way out the door. "Much obliged."

Doc got up not too long after he returned, still dressed in the previous day’s clothes. While Marty kept himself occupied, making toast spread with the last of the pear butter, Doc stripped down to the waist and washed up. Marty couldn’t help but notice the toll eight months had taken. Doc wasn’t even slightly soft around the middle anymore, although he was still more broadly built than Marty would ever be. Marty was always surprised when reminded how strong Doc was, how agile, and these qualities had served him well in weathering the vagaries of frontier life.

"Hey, Doc," he said as conversationally as he could manage, "we need to test the walkie-talkies."

"And I need to put the finishing touches on that model so we can have our trial-run," Doc replied, shrugging into a fresh shirt. "First, we’re going to eat. You’re better than an army of machines."

Marty took the compliment for what it was—namely, very high _indeed_ —and brought Doc his tea and toast. "Just like old times," he said. "Personally, I miss your place in 1955 the most. That jury-rigging we did with your video camera from 1985 and your parents’ old TV set was wild."

Doc nodded pensively, sipping his tea. "It may sound foolishly sentimental, but anywhere you are feels like home to me," he admitted. "You’ve been a constant through the chaos, and I’m grateful."

Marty felt his heart stutter, amazed it didn’t stop. "That’s, ah," he mumbled around a mouthful of toast, "awfully kind, Doc. Same to you. Listen, we gotta hustle and get that trial underway."

Doc nodded, abandoning his crusts of toast in favor of dashing to the set-up. "Ah, hell," he said. "Forget finishing touches. Let’s go over the entire plan. I apologize for the crudity of this model."

"Yeah, I know," Marty said, toast in hand, dashing to join him. "It's not to scale. It's okay, Doc."

"All right," Doc said. "Tomorrow night, Sunday, we'll load the DeLorean onto the tracks here, on the spur, right by the old abandoned silver mine. The switch-track is where the spur runs off the main line, three miles into Clayton—" he paused "— _Shonash_ Ravine. The train leaves the station at eight o’clock Monday morning. We'll stop it here, uncouple the cars from the tender, throw the switch-track, and hijack— _borrow_ the locomotive, and use it to push the time machine. According to my calculations, we'll hit eighty-eight miles per hour just before we hit the edge of the ravine, at which point we'll instantaneously arrive in 1985 and coast safely across the completed bridge."

"What does this mean?" Marty asked, indicating a sign near the tracks' end. " _Point of no return_?"

"That's our fail-safe," Doc explained. "Up until that point, we can stop the locomotive before it plunges over the ravine. But once we pass that windmill, it's the future or bust. Here you go, Marty. Connect that to the positive terminal. All right. Are we all set?"

"Yeah," said Marty, tersely, and did as he was told with the connection. "Yeah, _go_."

Just as Doc reached the climax of enthusiastically narrating their simulated (and hopefully successful) time-leap, someone knocked on the door.

"Emmett?" called Mayor Hubert, cautiously, but kindly. "Mr. Eastwood? Are you there?"

"Yes!" replied Doc, hiding the model DeLorean, which was still in his hand, behind his back.

"What he means is," Marty clarified, hurrying over to answer the door, "come on through."

"I'm sorry to trouble you, today of all days," said the Mayor, stepping inside with an elongated equipment-case of some kind, "but there's the matter of something we found in Miss Clayton's belongings." He handed the case over to Doc, who had already set the DeLorean aside in plain view and strode over to take the object off Hubert's hands. "It's probably broken, because it got jostled more than a bit. We fished it from just a few more yards down from—from where—Christ Almighty, but this has been hard on us all. In recognition of your efforts, Emmett, and for your charity, we thought you might like to have this. It may be worth the parts, if nothing else?"

Marty stared over Doc's shoulder as Doc opened the case. "It's a nice telescope," he said.

Doc brought the telescope out of its case, extending it full-length. "Shy of the lens having been knocked crooked in its mount," he said with reverence, "it's a perfectly serviceable piece. I can repair it without any trouble. I'll have it fixed for the schoolhouse. Whoever comes along next can learn to use it, and then show the children. In fact, I'd be glad to go in myself and run a tutorial."

"That's mighty kind of you, Emmett," said Hubert, stepping back toward the door, "but why don't you take some time with it for personal use first? Everyone 'round these parts knows you love science; there's no sense in trying to hide it. High time we had a blacksmith with book-smarts."

Doc frowned at the telescope, turning it over and over in his hands; Marty, sensing that he was too overwhelmed to respond, took the Mayor by his elbow and saw him out. "Emmett's mighty grateful to you," he said, touching the brim of a hat he'd forgotten he wasn't even wearing. "Sir."

"If he's in need of some air and distraction," said Hubert, lowering his voice, "won't you bring him on down to the Festival tonight? After Miss Clayton's service, of course. We'd love to have you."

"I'll see what I can do," said Marty, helping the older man onto his horse. "We'll see you at two."

Doc said as Marty came back inside, carefully putting away the telescope, "You'll need a suit."

They took a trip to the bath-house and paid extra so that Clem wouldn't mind the chit-chat, not that he understood half of what they were talking about anyway. Marty kept his sights trained on whatever he could see just past Doc's shoulder, which resulted in Doc asking him several times if there was something wrong with his eyes. Clem muttered under his breath as he dumped a bucket of water over Marty's soapy head, hot this time; Marty caught the phrases _mutual solace_ and _just ain't right_. He fetched a bucket to rinse Doc's head and remained tight-lipped thereafter.

Miss Linton, the grocer's daughter, was named Annabel Lee ("After Mr. Poe's verses," she said, "because my daddy loved readin' them so when he was young"). She helped Doc pick out a suit for Marty that wasn't going to fit like a potato sack, and she even hemmed up the legs in under thirty minutes. It left them less than an hour to dress for the service and head up the dusty track to Boot Hill.

"This place gives me the creeps, Doc," said Marty, under his breath, as they approached the only freshly-dug grave in the entirety of the cemetery. "We were only here a few days ago."

"More like a century from now," sighed Doc, returning Seamus's wave. "It's your family."

"It's a sad occasion brings us here, Mr. Eastwood," said Maggie, bouncing a fussy William on her hip. "That and your chicken-scratch note. When Seamus said there wouldn't be a proper priest to chant over the poor girl, I about had a fit." She looked Doc up and down. "Who would you be?"

"Mr. Brown's the blacksmith, Mags," said Seamus. "Eight months gone. I told you about him."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. McFly," said Doc; Marty was proud of him for maintaining good humor in the face of such dour scrutiny. "And it's always a pleasure to see you, Seamus."

"They'll be along with the coffin soon, and no mistake," said Seamus, nodding to Doc, glancing surreptitiously at Marty. "Rumor has it you don't like goin' by Clint, Mr. Eastwood. Your second name's Martin, if Chester has it right? Just so happens that's a family name with me and mine."

Marty nodded, belatedly tipping his hat. "That's right. Clint Martin Eastwood. Call me Marty."

Seamus nodded approvingly. "That suits you better somehow," he replied. "Marty. I like it."

While the undertaker and his pall-bearers approached, Marty squinted at the party of grave-diggers who stood several yards off smoking cigarillos. There were two young Indians dressed in laborers' overalls; one of the pair had beads in his long braid. There was a middle-aged Chinese man with some kind of pack slung across his chest and over his back, whose hair had gone all but white. There was also James Wilson, dressed in much the same way he had been when Marty had seen him that morning, but he sported a dapper new hat. He tipped the brim of it to Marty, nodding.

"Here comes Chester," said Doc, drawing Marty's attention away from the grave-diggers.

They were a small, rag-tag assembly all things considered. Mayor Hubert arrived five minutes late with his annoyed-looking wife on his arm; Marty took one look at her and decided Maggie was a fucking ray of sunshine. The undertaker cleared his throat and took a well-thumbed pocket bible out of his coat, greeting the assembled in a bored, haughty tone. He made Marty's skin crawl.

Doc stared at his feet the whole way through the undertaker's reading of 1 Thessalonians 4: 14 - 17, frowning as if he didn't know what to make of death-as-sleep metaphors and talk of resurrection. His right hand worked restlessly at his side, clenching and unclenching, so Marty took it in his own, holding it fast. Doc laced his fingers with Marty's, squeezing tightly.

 _I know you saw something in her during those few precious seconds you had_ , Marty wanted to say. _The photograph probably wasn't lying. Love at first sight isn't illogical; it's at least partly science, at least partly something all mixed up in body chemistry and neurons and God knows what else._ He regarded Clara's plain, handsome cedarwood coffin with its engraved name-plate. _If you're really there in my dreams_ , Marty thought _, then I'm so sorry to let you down. You said you wanted me to play for you, but I haven't got a lyre. I haven't even got my guitar. Please rest easy, Miss Clayton._

After an extended, pious, and extremely Catholic prayer offered up by Maggie McFly when nobody else volunteered, the party dispersed one by one (starting with the undertaker and pall-bearers, the devil take them, Seamus muttered). Marty kissed William on his wispy-haired head, and then kissed Maggie on the cheek, thanking her for what she'd done.

Seamus clapped Doc on the back, and then came over to Marty, his head bowed, his hands stuck deep in his pockets.

"It's a decent thing you did here today, you and Mr. Brown," he said. "I'm honored to have been a part. I don't know how long you plan on being here, Marty, but please know you're always welcome under our roof." He glanced at Doc again, troubled. "Is he going to be all right?"

"Give it time," Marty said, keeping his voice low while Doc exchanged restrained pleasantries with Maggie and the baby, "but, yeah, I think he will. It's just—he didn't get there in time to meet her," he lied, which was what everyone else seemed to believe. "He feels responsible. That's his way."

"You take care of him," said Seamus, in a whisper, "and you be _careful_. I knew someone in shoes like yours, although that was the least of his worries in the end. Strange, when the thing you think's going to do someone in isn't the end of it by a long shot. He was happy till his time came."

Seamus turned on his heel, racing to catch up with Maggie, who had already ambled down the rise, and Marty started to chase after him.

"Seamus!" he called. "Seamus, wait. I don't—"

"His brother was killed in a fight," said Doc, softly. "There's some disagreement as to the cause. The official story says it's because someone called him a coward, but rumor has it that the man with the knife was casting aspersions on him using information that was nobody's goddamn business."

Before Marty could even ask what _that_ meant, the grave-diggers came over and resumed their shovels. James tipped his hat to Doc, acknowledging Doc's words, and then looked at Marty. The others looked wary, like they wished the crowd would disperse so they could work in peace.

"Me and mine, we're gonna clean up this town one day," James said, "and if it means I start by filling in the graves of one no-good bastard like Tannen at a time, so be it." He removed his hat. "But this brave, educated lady here, rest her soul," he added solemnly. "She ain't no part of that."

Jonas, the Indian with beads in his hair, helped Zhihao remove his pack—which, as it turned out, wasn't a pack at all, but a weathered Spanish-style guitar in a homemade knapsack. Marty stared at it. Jonas bent to set it on the ground, and then said, "Is something wrong?"

"It's a nice instrument, that's all," Marty said. "Great workmanship. Looks like care went into it."

"Then make yourself useful," said Jonas's brother, who wouldn't tell Marty his name. "Play for us."

Doc persuaded Zhihao to give up his shovel and indicated that he should sit down while Doc helped Jonas, his brother, and James fill in the grave. With Zhihao's gestured permission, Marty picked up the guitar and ran his fingers across the strings. They were brittle and badly needed both tightening and tuning, so Marty did what he could. _Play for them, huh,_ he thought, watching Clara's coffin disappear beneath shovel-fuls of earth, blinking back tears. _For you, too. Like you wanted._

It was tough to make the few Irish folk-songs he could remember his grandfather singing to him when he was a kid work well on the instrument, but Marty could keep his voice on-pitch even if the instrument wasn't ideal. He sang two, both of them sad, and part of another that was more upbeat, but to which he couldn't remember all the words. Zhihao nodded approvingly after that, gesturing for the instrument, so Marty gave it back to him. He played and played, sang and _sang_ in his own language, until the work was done. Lacking a shovel, Marty pitched in with his bare hands, heaping great palm-fuls of dirt on Clara's grave. He met Doc's eyes as they smoothed the last of it.

That evening, the Hill Valley Festival provided a much-needed diversion. He and Doc ended up getting their picture taken next to the clock intended for the courthouse tower, and Doc, his spirits lifted somewhat, called this turn of events _fitting_. He watched in amazement as Marty out-shot everyone else who'd tried their hand at the Colt stand's targets, shaking his head in not-quite-disapproval when, straight-faced, Marty told them he'd learned to shoot like that at Seven-Eleven.

It was purely by chance that he'd noticed a few of the couples on the dance-floor were young cowboys and farmhands dancing with _other_ young men. Chester set Marty's confusion to rights before he could even ask: dances where _all_ your couples in attendance were gents were common out here in the wilderness, what with your overall shortage of ladies in proportion. Doc nodded in agreement, tapping his foot. Marty caught sight of James and Annabel Lee dancing behind the stage.

"What great music!" Doc remarked; Marty was so glad to see him smile that it was infectious.

"Yeah!" Marty agreed, clapping as the volume rose. "It's got a beat, and you can dance to it!"

"Then I'll leave you gentlemen to it," said Chester, wandering off to find his wife and his son.

What Marty did next, he didn't even think would go amiss; if it was a known fact that there weren't enough unmarried women to go around, then what was the harm in offering Doc his arm? "They didn't like my dancing in the saloon a few days ago," he said wryly. "Teach me how to do it right?"

"Try to keep up, Future Boy," said Doc, wryly, whirling him into the fray, "and hang onto your hat."

As Marty's screwed-up luck would have it, Mad Dog and his cronies decided to crash the party only a few minutes into the new musical set. You could only bring an otherwise bitchin' party to a screeching halt for so long before the insults you're slinging at Marty McFly's best friend will result in Marty McFly shooting off his goddamn mouth. And you absolutely _cannot_ get away with calling Marty McFly _yellow_ , no sir, no way, _nohow_. By the end of it, Marty was left shaking in the midst of his startled fellow dancers; behind him, Doc was squeezing Marty's shoulders so hard it hurt.

"Eight o'clock Monday!" Tannen shouted back over his shoulder as Marshall Strickland waved him and the rest of the riff-raff out at gunpoint. "If you ain't here, I'll hunt you and shoot you down like a duck!"

"It's _dog_ , Buford," hissed one of his lesser flunkies, sheepishly. "You'll shoot him down like a dog."

"Let's go, boys!" roared Buford, living up to the name he hated. "Let these sissies have their party!"

Doc dragged Marty off the dance-floor as the music started up again, furious. "Marty," Doc demanded, shaking him, "what are you _doing_ , saying you're going to meet Tannen?"

"Doc, don't worry about it," Marty said, trying to reassure him, but Doc let go of him, scowling, and wasn't having any of it. "Monday morning, eight o'clock. We're gonna be gone, right?"

"Theoretically, yes," said Doc, backing away from him, "but what if the train's late?"

"Late?" Marty demanded, wondering what the hell Doc was playing at. "Doc, _please_ —"

"We'll discuss this later," said Doc, curtly, turning on his heel. "I've got work to do."

"And _we'll_ discuss this _now_ ," said Seamus, coming up beside Marty out of nowhere. "You had him, Mr. Eastwood. You could have just walked away, and nobody would have thought the less of you for it. All it would have been was words, hot air from a buffoon. Instead, you let him rile you," he forged on, imploring. "Let him rile you into playing his game, his way, his rules. Do you see?"

"It's _Marty_ ," Marty sighed, rubbing the side of his neck. "Seamus, relax. I know what I'm doing."

"He reminds me of poor Martin," said Maggie, disapprovingly, bouncing William to the music.

"Aye," Seamus agreed, regarding Marty with the saddest look he'd seen since the funeral earlier.

"Who?" asked Marty, pretending that Doc hadn't mentioned the great and tragic McFly secret.

"My brother," sighed Seamus, giving Maggie a look that suggested he could've done without this.

"You have a brother named Martin?" Marty asked. "That's what you meant by family name?"

" _Had_ a brother," said Seamus. "Martin used to let men provoke him into fighting. He was concerned people would think him a coward if he refused. That's how he got a Bowie knife shoved through his belly in Virginia City. Never considered the future, poor Martin, God rest his soul."

With that, he walked away, and Maggie lingered with Marty for a moment. "I sure hope you're considerin' the future, Mr. Eastwood," she said, and followed her husband off into the autumn dusk.

"I think about it all the time," Marty sighed, watching until he lost the glint of Maggie's hair.

After being given the unexpected gift of a Colt revolver and ammunition belt to boot, Marty had a lonely, if short walk home. Doc was hard at work on the telescope, holding it up to the light with a critical, appraising eye as Marty walked through the door. Doc set the telescope in its case; meanwhile, Marty set the holstered gun down on the desk right where Doc could see it.

"I think she'll suffice," Doc said, patting the telescope, ignoring the gun. "The lens works."

"Yeah, well, good for you," said Marty, yawning, letting his jacket fall across the desk so that it covered the weapon. "I'm bushwhacked, and tomorrow's gonna be a long day of waiting."

"Then you should sleep through as much of it as you can," said Doc, lightly, but Marty knew better than to think there _wasn't_ something Doc wasn't letting himself say. "Spare yourself the agony."

"You should get some sleep, too, Doc," Marty said. "We didn't exactly have the easiest afternoon."

"If it's all the same," said Doc, closing the telescope case, "I might just go out and take in the sky."

"Fine, do that," Marty said, stripping down to his underthings while Doc took up the telescope, reached for his hat, and missed. "I'm turning in," he added, stretching, and Doc stomped out.

 

 

**September 6, 1885**

Marty was dreaming, he _had_ to be. He was seated at the edge of the ravine, right on the precipice with his feet dangling out over the rocks, and Clara was beside him. Her hair was pinned under her hat; she was pale in starched lavender, eyes haunted, but her face was no longer bloody.

 _There_ , she said, pointing one star at a time into the pinprick-lit void. _You played for me, so I'll explain. That's Lyra out there_ , she told Marty, slipping her other arm around Marty's waist as she continued to point. _Orpheus's lyre. The instrument he played to conquer death. Isn't it divine?_

 _Yes,_ Marty said, committing the seven stars to memory. _But I doubt he played Irish folk-songs_.

 _That's Vega_ , said Clara, pointing to the brightest of them, letting her head rest against Marty's shoulder. She smelled of rain, of night-blooming flowers and turned earth. _And the one just to the left, they call that Double Double. Sounds like something right out of Macbeth, doesn't it?_

 _Toil and trouble_ , agreed Marty, with a growing sense of unrest. _Do the others have names, too?_

Clara nodded, lifting her head; she let her arm drop from Marty's waist and used it to prop herself against the sandy ground instead. _Those two below Vega, on the diagonal,_ she said, _are Zeta Lyr and then the Delta Lyrae. The latter's a binary system, two stars orbiting each other. Romantic._

 _Very,_ Marty said, briefly considering his hands folded in his lap before glancing back up again.

 _Below the Delta Lyrae at a diagonal, you find Sulafat, and below Zeta Lyr, there's Sheliak,_ explained Clara, but her finger doubled back a slightly on the straight path from Sulafat to Sheliak, resting on the seventh point in Lyra's configuration. _And there's my ring_ , she said. _Poor Emmett._

 _Does your ring have a name?_ Marty asked, at a loss for what else to say. _Clara, what should I do?_

Clara touched his cheek as she'd done in the first dream, only this time her fingers splayed to soothe him, turning his face toward hers. She kissed him on the mouth, chaste and forgiving.   _You give him that from me, Marty McFly,_ she said, _and then you give him the rest from yourself._

Marty woke feeling as if he'd slept soundly for the first time in days.  He yawned, running his fingers along Doc's wrist, and _then_ it hit him: he wasn't alone in the bed, and that _was_ Doc's arm curled protectively around his middle.  Marty lay as still as he could, feeling his heart-rate ratchet up just slightly.  He considered throwing caution to the wind, pondered the potential of rolling over to nuzzle Doc's cheek and kiss him awake.

Marty's pulse spiked as Doc stirred, his fingertips flexing against Marty's belly; even through a layer of heavy cotton, the touch burned.

"G'morning," Marty said, disappointed when the press of Doc's mouth against the back of his head didn't resolve into anything more than a yawn.

Doc rolled away, although he wasn’t trying to pretend he _hadn't_ been cuddling Marty in his sleep, leaving Marty half-hard in his long johns.  "We'll have to rustle up something else for breakfast," he said, rubbing his eyes. "You've seen to it that we've cleaned out my supply of toast-spread."

"At least let me make us some coffee," Marty said, getting up to hunt for his clothes. If Doc had noticed the state he was in, then he gave absolutely no sign. Marty wondered what would happen if he went back over to the bed, stripped down to nothing, crawled in beside him—

"Excuse me, Marty," Doc said, rolling out of bed, and, grabbing only his boots and trousers, exited rapidly through the back door. Doc's privy was considerably more civilized than most people's, but it was still an outhouse when you got right down to it.

"Yeah, no kidding," Marty sighed, fastening his trousers, and then started on his shirt buttons. He wanted to jerk off like nobody's business, and the knowledge Doc might be doing just _that_ made him dizzy. Making coffee gave him something to focus on, at least, until he'd cooled off.

Doc fetched his coffee when he came back in and, to Marty's surprise, came over to sit beside Marty on the edge of the bed. They sipped in comfortable silence, their thighs touching. The intimacy of it was almost unbearable, but the fact that this didn't feel weird so much as _anticipatory_ set a pleasant flutter in Marty's stomach. This didn't feel like rejection so much as a deferral, a test: with so much at stake in the next twenty-four hours, how much were they willing to risk?

"Let's head into town for some grub," Doc suggested once he'd finished his coffee, clapping Marty companionably on the knee, "and then, while we shop around to make sure we've got everything we need, check out the buzz on your duel with Tannen tomorrow that's not even going to happen."

When Marty caught Doc's hand and squeezed it, Doc didn't even try to pull away. "Sounds like a plan," Marty said, grinning at him.

They picked up cheese and a loaf of bread from the grocer, only to find a sullen-looking Annabel Lee working the cash register. Doc seemed taken aback to see her, and Marty didn't have to wait long to find out why. Doc tipped his hat and fished some coins out of his pocket.

"Good morning, Miss Linton," he said, handing over exact change. "Aren't you usually at the Sunday service with your parents? Where's Lionel?"

Annabel Lee took a deep breath, looking to Marty for support; whatever she needed, he nodded without reservation. "Daddy's got it in his head I ain't fit for the sight of God because he saw me dancin' with Mr. Wilson last night," she said. "Lionel's back stocking the dry goods. Daddy says I can stew here and ponder what I've done," she went on, "and you know what I think? If I ain't fit for the sight of God, then He ain't fit for mine."

 _Jesus Christ_ , Marty thought, removing his hat while Doc sympathetically patted her hand. _This town, and maybe even the whole Old West from the sound of things, can deal with men dancing together. But the minute you so much as hint at interracial romance, all bets are off._

"Miss Linton," said Doc, "I hope you'll pardon my speaking against your father, but that was both wrong-headed and un-Christian of him. James Wilson is a fine, upstanding young man. He did right by Miss Clayton yesterday, and that's more than can be said for over half the town. _Hush_ , no, nobody blames you for not going. You're an honest girl; you respect your parents. I'll have a word with your old man if you think it would help."

"Ain't nobody around here who doesn't respect you, Mr. Brown," she said, and then smiled tearfully at Marty. "Thank you for treatin' James kind."

"Ma'am," Marty said. "With a few exceptions, there's nobody here who's deserved anything less. Your hospitality's made me feel right at home."

"Then stay," she said as Marty and Doc turned to go. "Heaven knows Mr. Brown's been lonely these long months, and I could use another friend."

Marty touched the brim of his hat. "Annabel Lee, should I be so lucky to remain in Hill Valley," he said, "I could use another friend or two as well."

Their stroll from the grocer's with food in hand saw them regarded as a sensation in the street. Men greeted Marty with praise for having stood up to Mad Dog; a few women did the same, but most of them just nodded or waved. Doc frowned when the undertaker got right up in Marty's face, asking if he could interest him in a new suit, and he about blew up when the guy approached Marty again, this time with a tape measure.

"Hey, look," said Marty, holding Doc back. "I'm not interested in buying a suit. I have one."

The undertaker laughed, measuring him anyway. "No," he explained. "This is for your coffin."

"My _coffin_?" Marty demanded. The guy wasn’t just as annoying as fuck; he was presumptuous.

"The odds are running two to one against you," said the undertaker. "Might as well be prepared."

Once he’d left, Marty finished chewing the mouthful of cheese he’d been working on and gave Doc a nervous look. "Well, there's your buzz on Schrödinger's gunfight," he sighed. "Cheerful."

"More like Schrödinger's _gunslinger_ ," Doc corrected him, troubled, and pulled something out of his back pocket; it was the tombstone photograph, Marty realized. "Something isn't right. Look."

The name _EMMETT BROWN_ had vanished, but the dates were still in place. Marty frowned.

"I don't like this, Doc," he said. "If the space-time continuum can't decide who dies, then…"

"Then it may be _your_ name that ends up there instead of mine," said Doc, pocketing the photo.

"Great Scott," Marty muttered under his breath, clutching his head. None of this made _any_ sense.

"I know," replied Doc, gravely. "This is heavy." His expression changed from one of concern to one of despair as his eyes flicked down to Marty’s hip. "Marty, why are wearing that gun? You're not considering running against Tannen tomorrow, are you?" He sounded plaintive, almost _gutted_.

"Tomorrow morning, Doc, I'm going back to the future with you," Marty insisted, grabbing hold of his arm. "But if Buford Tannen comes looking for trouble, I'm going to be ready for him. You heard what that son-of-a-bitch called me last night." _What he called us both_ , he thought.

"Marty, you can't go losing your judgment every time someone calls you a name," Doc insisted, shaking him off. "That's exactly what causes you to get into that accident in the future."

"What?" Marty demanded. "What about my future?" _Right now, all I care is that my future has you in it_ , he thought, _because, based on what we saw in 2015 and on the fact that I'm willing to drop everything and travel back a century for you, there's not much hope left for me and Jennifer._

"I can't tell you," insisted Doc, with melancholy resignation. "It might make things worse."

"Worse than an innocent person winding up dead?" Marty asked. "Worse than deciding to _let_ said person die just because history says they do? No, _wait_ —worse than us trying to rescue said person because we ended up in the right place at the wrong time even after we'd squared with our decision?" He thought of Clara's face in his dreams, thought of her lips pursed thin and expectant. "It doesn't _get_ any worse than this, Doc. We're trying to play God, and we're doing an awful job!"

Doc took Marty by the shoulders, whirling him around so that they faced each other right there in the street. "Marty," he said solemnly, "we all have to make decisions that affect the course of our lives, and frequently ones that affect the lives of others, too. Right now, we're the ones who still _have_ lives, so we've gotta do what we've gotta do. Are you still with me?"

 _To the end of the line_ , Marty thought, nodding, _for better or for worse_. "We should get back to the lab," he sighed. "Speaking of shit to do, we've got a _ton_ of it to clear before tonight, Doc."

By five o'clock, they'd wrapped up all of the last-minute modifications on the DeLorean that needed making. Dinner was quick and dirty, tinned beans and what was left of the bread from that morning. They mustered the same additional horses as before and towed the DeLorean out to the tracks; they held their breath once everything was in place, and, with the crank of a lever, she glided onto the tracks as smooth as you please. They wrangled the horses back into town, deciding it was best to just walk back out to where they'd prepped the DeLorean and set up camp.

Doc seemed troubled, and he had them stop back at the lab to fetch a few odds and ends. He slung the telescope case over his shoulder and told Marty to grab any souvenirs he might want. The suit was actually kind of sharp, and Annabel Lee had worked hard on the hemming, so Marty stuffed it into an old knapsack Doc had dug up from somewhere next to the desk. He grabbed pillows, because he wasn't about to sleep on just bedroll and hard ground if it was their last night in this place. He wondered if they'd sleep close, just like they'd been doing in Doc's bed.

"You're thinking so loud you're going to draw Strickland's attention," said Doc, wryly, beginning to set up the telescope as soon as they arrived back at their camp-site. "Get a fire going while I sort this out," he added, scanning the lavender-washed sky as dusk fell. "I figure there's no use letting this go to waste. We might as well do some stargazing to pass the time."

"How'd it work for you last night?" asked Marty, and busied himself with setting up their bedrolls first. If Doc had a problem with how close together he'd situated them, then he could raise the issue then and there. Marty was tired of the tension, tired of what they weren't saying, tired of not measuring up to the expectations of a ghost who'd decided to bunk down in his subconscious.

"Like a charm," Doc said, his eye up to the lens, and fiddled with the dials. "It'll be dark soon," he said, "but there's a magnificent view already."

Marty stopped fluffing the pillows and went over to Doc stood next to the telescope, indicating that Marty should take a look. He bent and put his right eye up to the lens, squinching his left one shut. Doc had it focused on a beautiful, hazy-edged object that seemed somewhat irregular, too curiously dark at its center to be a star. "What am I looking at, Doc?" he asked. "A black hole or something?"

"If only!" Doc exclaimed. "No, that's M57, also known as the Ring Nebula. Back in 1779, two French astronomers discovered it independently of each other. Antoine Darquier de Pellepoix described it as Jupiter-sized, said it resembled a fading planet. Charles Messier entered it in his catalogue as the fifty-seventh object, hence the label M57. It's located along the lower edge—"

"—of the constellation called Lyra," Marty finished for him, feeling his stomach drop through the grit beneath his feet. "I've heard about it. We must've covered that during those few years I was in Boy Scouts before I got kicked out." He took a slow breath, wiping his damp palms on his poncho, and stepped back from the telescope. "What's got it on your mind? Why Lyra, why this nebula?"

"Because it will be photographed for the very first time about a year from now," Doc sighed in admiration. "Hungarian astronomer Eugene von Gothard will have that honor in 1886."

"I guess it's not very often you get to witness astronomical history in the making," Marty said, and went back in for another look. _I found your ring_ , he thought, admiring the fret and fire of it. _As long as Doc hangs onto your telescope, I promise we'll never lose track of it again._

"Breathtaking," Doc said, and Marty looked up. "A falling star. You missed it. I've always wanted to find a piece of meteorite. Maybe it's time to consider geological pursuits in my retirement."

"Doc," Marty sighed, finding just enough of his nerve to broach the subject, "this is great and all, but I think we've gotta talk. About tomorrow, I mean. About the future. _Our_ future." He walked over to the bedrolls, picked up Doc's clever fire-starting kit, and had a blaze going in minutes. He sat down on the bedroll nearest the fire, patting the spot next to him.

Doc came and joined him without protest, sighing heavily as he settled. "That's wise," he said. "Who knows if this mad scheme of mine will even work. I mean, what if we get ourselves killed? Or what if something else goes wrong and we survive, but we really are stranded here?" He glanced sidelong at Marty. "I've grown fond of this era, but could _you_ square with that?"

Marty stared at his boots, tracing parallel lines in the dust with his index and middle fingers, enclosing them in a circle. "I want us to live, Doc. I don't want to lose you. I don't want one of us to be stuck back here and one of us back in 1985, and I don't want one of us dead and the other left to pick up the pieces. The two of us picking up the pieces for a total stranger is hard enough," he said, pressing his mouth against the back of his hand. "And look, she'll always be with us, always, because of what happened. Clara Clayton's gonna haunt me for the rest of my life."

 _You give him that from me, Marty McFly,_ she'd said (or, hell, maybe his own goddamn conscience conveniently speaking in her voice had said it), _and then you give him the rest from yourself_.

"You won't bear it alone," said Doc, with more conviction in his voice than Marty had ever heard, cautiously taking Marty's hand. "You won't bear anything alone, Marty. Not anymore."

 _Oh, fuck this Victorian propriety shit,_ thought Marty, and kissed Doc firmly on the mouth. "I'm sorry," he said, and then tilted his head a second time, letting his lips part against Doc's. Instead of being pushed away, Marty found that he'd been dragged fractionally closer. Doc had a decent clue about kissing, it turned out. Doc had _such_ a clue, in fact, that Marty was fast approaching the same problem he'd had that morning.

"It'd be dangerous," Doc murmured, finally drawing back. "I can't promise you otherwise. In fact, 1985 might be even worse than 1885. People here, at least, for the most part mind their own business. There are structures in place to deal with alternative relationship paradigms given the relative absence of women. There's even common parlance for it, some of which you've heard."

"So you mean _what_ , exactly?" Marty asked, looking back down at what he'd drawn in the dirt, bitterly scribbling it out. "Those stag dances? The thing Clem was muttering under his breath? Sure. Now you're telling me it's all just stuff people do when they feel sorry for each other, is that it? No wonder Chester and Annabel and everybody else has been spouting that poor-Mr.-Brown-has-been-so-lonely talk." Marty wanted Doc to touch him, to love him like his presence _meant_ something. Like he wasn't some consolation prize, never mind that he knew that was _exactly_ —

" _Mutual solace_ doesn't mean intimacy out of pity," said Doc. "Not to me. As far as I'm concerned, that kind of commitment means sharing a life."

Marty's rational mind was going, going, _gone_. He launched himself at Doc, kissing him with all the fear, hope, and stubbornness he could muster. Miracle of miracles, Doc _let_ him, pulling Marty into his lap with a gasp. Marty shoved him back on the bedrolls, scattering dust everywhere. He knew that they shouldn't be doing this, knew that they should let it wait, that they should _sleep_. Doc sensed Marty's hesitation and sighed.

"If we get through tomorrow," he said, pulling away from Marty's kisses with noticeable effort, "then I'll owe you. Inasmuch as I've—" he swallowed guiltily "—been thinking about this all day, should it have turned out I wasn't imagining it all and you actually _wanted_ such a thing, I—"

"You bet your ass you'll owe me," Marty said, kissing Doc one more time for good measure, marveling at the reaction it got him. "I'll hold you to it."

"There are any number of attempts I could make at mediocre humor," Doc said, snagging one of the pillows, stuffing it under his head, and pulling Marty down so that he was lying sprawled over Doc with his head tucked under Doc's chin, "but I'll settle for wishing you sweet dreams instead."

 _I'll dream all right_ , thought Marty, and pressed his lips against Doc's throat. _Please,_ he begged. _Please, Clara, don't let him have to bury us both._

 

 

**September 7, 1885**

They were at the edge of the ravine again, this time standing where the railroad tracks ended. Clara was dressed in fine traveling clothes, violet velvet with black cuffs, bodice panel, and buttons. She clutched a valise in one lace-gloved hand and held her hat in place with the other as she and Marty peered at the jagged rocks. She made a disapproving sound, turning her head to meet Marty's gaze.

 _It's a long way down_ , Clara said, _and I didn't even make the full trip_. She grinned, elbowing Marty companionably in the ribs. _Why the long face? You're packed and ready. That suit's the only thing you'll need._

 _I'm not very good at gallows humor_ , said Marty, smiling weakly, _especially not after what Tannen and his gang tried to do._ _Listen, I don't know if you're actually Clara or just my subconscious or what. Maybe you're both. Regardless, you've been my best source of information to date, so I'm gonna ask in all seriousness: do you really think I'm destined to die tomorrow?_

Clara brushed some dust off his sleeve. _Not by gunshot, you won't,_ she said. _There are a million ways to die out here, young man, and you're flirting with at least three of them. My money's on the train-jacking, which is why we're where we are._ She straightened her posture and adjusted her hat, head inclined slightly toward the tracks to their right. _Well, that and because my ride has almost arrived_ , she said. _Can you hear it?_

Marty hadn't noticed it before, but the low thrum in the distance, much louder now, did in fact seem to be a train. _Thanks for the advice_ , he said, _and for the telescope. It works great. We had a look at your favorite constellation last night. Lyra's still there, burning away._

She nodded in approval, and then reached to touch his face for the third time, as if to trace it, commit it to memory. _If you live_ , she said, _you do as I say. I waited too long to take risks, let my parents dictate what risks I took and which I didn't until the day they died. At least on the day I died, I was taking a risk I'd chosen myself. Emmett is right; we all make choices._ She patted Marty's cheek and let her hand drop to join the other on the handle of her valise. _Be good, Marty,_ she said. _Be brave, be strong, and don't let anybody else tell you who or what you are._

Marty couldn't help but smile at that as the train rumbled into view; he removed his hat and held it over his heart. _Miss Clayton, ma'am,_ he said, _it's truly been an honor getting to know you. Where are you off to next, if you don't mind my asking?_

The train shuddered to a halt, gleaming and strange. It was like no steam engine Marty had ever seen, and it pulled no cars. Clara's face lit up like Vega when it folded open and stairs descended. An earnest-looking gentleman in a black suit, white shirt, and plum silk cravat stepped down and offered Clara his hand; he had close-cropped white hair, a bushy salt-and-pepper beard, and kind crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He spoke to her in rapid French, and she responded with something that was likewise too complicated for Marty's single year of elective language-class experience to parse. She waved at Marty, stepping inside the train as the stairs folded up behind her.

 _Mr. Verne's dreams are much more interesting than yours!_ she said. _No offense intended, of course. We're off in search of Mr. Poe tonight_ , she added. _Jules has always wanted to meet him!_

 _If you find him, tell him Annabel Lee says hello!_ Marty called after them as the fantastical engine closed again, and he didn't stop waving until, in amazement, he watched it roar right off the edge of the tracks and vanish into the starry void over Shonash Ravine. _Clayton_ Ravine. Whichever.

Marty woke shivering and alone to find dawn creeping over the horizon. Doc must have tucked the bedrolls and blankets around him as best he could before getting up to—Jesus, he had _better_ have only just gone to piss or something, which meant he probably wouldn't be gone for long. Marty checked the pocket-watch Doc had set aside on their pile of supplies and squinted at it. The hands indicated that it was five forty-two in the morning. Next to the pocket-watch, the tombstone photograph had a new set of phantom letters: _CLINT EASTWOOD._ He palmed the watch and waited fifteen minutes, but Doc didn't come back. He put it in his pocket along with the picture.

A quick search of the scrub-brush in Marty's immediate vicinity told him all he needed to know: Doc wasn't there. Swearing, Marty belted up and made sure the Colt was loaded, shoving his hat on his head. Doc had probably gone back to the lab for something he'd forgotten, heedless of the fact it just wasn't safe for either of them to be back within town limits. It was seven-thirty by the time Marty reached the main street; the darkened blacksmith shop was thrown into stark contrast by lights and merriment from Chester's saloon, and Marty's heart sank in trepidation. When he marched through the doors, no one looked surprised to see him. In fact, they looked _glad_.

Doc, perched at the bar with a shot of something in hand, didn't look at him at all.  "But in the future," he was saying, "we don't need horses.  We have horseless carriages called automobiles."

"If everybody's got one of these _automowhatsits_ ," said one of the men idling at the habitual group table, "does anybody walk or run anymore?"

"Of course they run," said Doc, finally noticing Marty, beckoning him over to the bar. "But they do it for recreation, for fun." He patted the stool next to him. "Shots are on me. I bought the bottle."

"Jesus Christ, Doc," Marty sighed, looking to Chester in exasperation. "How much has he had? When we were at the Festival, you mentioned some kind of incident on the Fourth of July?"

"None," said Chester, soberly. "That's his first one, and he hasn't touched it yet. He just likes to hold it." He lowered his voice and leaned over the bar toward Marty. "The Fourth, now, that involved way too much sarsaparilla. He was bouncin' off the walls like a firecracker."

"Yep," Marty sighed, "we call that a sugar rush." He turned to Doc and clapped him on the shoulder. "Doc," he said firmly, trying to bring him back around. "Doc, what are you _doing_?"

"I've lost everything, Marty," said Doc, despairingly, "and I might even lose _you_. Tannen and his gang ride fast; if they hadn't found you here, they'd have just tracked us into the desert and shot one or both of us down as we ran. There's nothing left for us here, not for either of us."

"I wouldn't say that," said Marty, "but if that's how you feel, then you've gotta come back with me."

Doc squinted at him, perplexed, and then gave his shot-glass a dangerously longing look. "Where?"

"Back to the future!" Marty reminded him, resisting a fierce urge to smack Doc upside the head.

"Right," Doc said, seemingly returning to his senses, setting down his glass. "Let's get going."

"Great," Marty said, thumping Doc on the back, helping him off his stool. One bullet, dodged.

"Gentlemen, excuse me," announced Doc, apologetically, "but my friend and I have to catch a tr—"

Marty clapped a hand over Doc's mouth, dragging him toward the door, and then tipped his hat.

"Here's to ya, blacksmith," said one of the old-timers at the table, raising his glass in salute.

"And to the future!" exclaimed one of the first guy’s companions, following suit. "Hear, hear."

"To Emmett Brown, an' to his highfalutin' imagination, too," chimed the third guy. "Amen!"

"Amen," agreed Doc, downing the shot before any of them could do anything to prevent it.

The situation that followed, Marty had to admit, was less than ideal. Doc was unconscious, the old-timers' breakfast had been ruined, and Chester was beside himself when the black coffee Joey brewed at Marty's behest didn't work. It was seven forty-five, and Marty was running out of time.

There was some commotion outside, an ominous cloud of dust not too far in the distance.

After about five or ten minutes of little to no success getting the rest of the coffee down Doc’s throat, Chester told Joey it was time to make some _wake-up juice_. Marty didn’t like the sound of that one bit, and he had the feeling Doc was going to like it even less. Once they'd funneled the noxious stuff down him, Doc started awake, screamed, ran outside, and passed out again face-down in the horse trough. They dragged him back into the saloon and put him in a chair; while they were fanning his face, desperately trying to revive him again, Seamus McFly walked in.

"Seamus," said Chester, nodding to him while he smacked Doc's cheek. "Wouldn't expect to see you here this morning. I can't help but think what the missus might say if she knew?"

"Aye," said Seamus, shrugging, "but something inside me told me I should be here. As if my future had something to do with it." He glanced at Marty, and Marty averted his eyes, focusing on Doc.

"He'll come around in a minute," said Chester, determined. "C'mon, Emmett. Your boy's afraid."

Marty didn't even have to time to react to the fact that _nobody else_ was reacting to what Chester had just said. "C'mon, Doc, _c'mon_ ," he pleaded. "Wake up now, buddy, _please_. C'mon…"

"You in there, Eastwood?" demanded a voice outside. "It's eight o'clock, and I'm calling you out!"

Marty stepped toward the window, cringing; it was Buford Tannen. "It's not eight o'clock yet!"

"It is by my watch!" Buford said. "Let's settle this once and for all, runt. Or ain't you got the guts?"

And, because Marty had no sense of proportion, he fumbled in his pocket for the photograph and checked the tombstone inscription. It said _HERE LIES CLINT EASTWOOD_ plain as day. "Uh, listen," he said, stalling. "I'm not really feeling up to this today, so I'm gonna have to forfeit!"

"Forfeit!" howled Buford, furiously, and then paused. " _Forfeit_?" he muttered. "What's that mean?"

"Uh," said a crony, the one who'd corrected him before. "It means that you win without a fight."

"Without shootin'?" said Buford, incredulously. "Hey, he can't do that." He banged on the window, making Marty jump. "You can't do that! You know what I think? I think you're a gutless—"

At wits' end with the situation, worried _sick_ for Doc, Marty muttered a hasty apology to Chester and did the only thing he could think to do: unholstered his gun quick as a blink, firing off several rounds at the window, shattering the glass. This action, at least, had the intended effect; there was shouting both within the saloon and without, and Marty could hear the Tannen gang's shouts as they scattered for cover. While Marty and Chester got Doc down on the floor, which was where everyone else had already dived for cover, more voices cropped up outside.

"That's right!" Annabel Lee shouted. "You wouldn't put a bullet in my belly, would ya? I thought not. And if you _dare_ , you brainless, no account sheep-stitchers, well, James and Jonas here—"

"Like'n your ball-less, black-faced boys would even have the nerve to shoot!" Buford sneered, and Marty thought he'd heard the ominous _click_ of a pistol being cocked—but it was impossible to tell _whose_.

"Oh, we got the _nerve_ all right," said James, and, from the sound of things, the shot that got fired was his. There was silence outside, abrupt and deafening, followed by Buford's pained shriek.

"And you, Mr. Tannen, aren't going _anywhere_ ," said Jonas. "You better hope Marshall Strickland gets here before you bleed out." There was a murmur as citizens gathered. "Look here," he continued, raising his voice. "James Wilson defended Miss Linton’s honor against this scoundrel!"

Marty breathed out, holstering his gun, letting his head drop to rest against Doc's chest in relief. As if that was the only kick Doc had needed, he sputtered awake, clutching at Marty with all of his lively strength.

"Everybody clear out!" shouted Marshall Strickland outside. "Yes, that means you. Stop gawking. We've got this under control, so just go about your business. Deputy, get the medic and bring him on down to the jail. James and Jonas, round up them that's scattered. The law thanks you both."

"Marty, I thought I was done for," Doc said, sitting up, pulling Marty with him. "Let's go!"

"Sheep-stitcher?" Marty demanded, breathless, as they got to their feet and dashed out into the chaos. They grabbed the first horses they could find, which were a pair formerly belonging to Tannen's gang. "Care to explain that one, Doc? I'm not up on my eighteen-hundreds slang."

"To be in a stitch with someone is to have amorous relations with them," Doc explained as they rode away from the center of town. "Miss Linton was implying that Buford and his merry band—"

"Okay, gross," said Marty, breathlessly, cutting him off. " _Whoa_ , horse! There's the DeLorean; slow down." He leapt off once he was sure he could hit the ground without stumbling, and Doc did the same, looking somewhat impressed with Marty's progress. "Are we gonna make it?"

"We'll have to cut the train off at Coyote Pass," said Doc, helping Marty gather up their belongings, shoving them inside the DeLorean before he slammed the door shut again. "The horses, hurry!"

They were back on horseback before Marty knew it, and they'd been lucky Buford's steeds hadn't galloped too far without them. He hoped no one would recognize them, bandanna-covered as they were, and leaping from horse-back to train car was almost as terrifying as jumping off that building and onto the hoverboard in Biff Tannen's hellish alternate 1985. He was certain that it was by sheer, mindless luck that they made their way to the engine without falling off and managed to uncouple the passenger cars. _Good_ , Marty thought, making his his way forward to the freshly momentum-hitched DeLorean while Doc stoked the furnace. _No lives to lose but ours._

The train whistle blew, and Marty, having just settled in the DeLorean, glanced behind him.

"I've always wanted to do that!" said Doc, gleefully, into his walkie-talkie. "Time circuits on?"

"Check, Doc," replied Marty, one step ahead of him, already setting his fingers on the keypad.

"Input the destination time," continued Doc, his voice calm. "October 27th, 1985. Eleven A.M."

"We're cruising at a steady twenty-five miles an hour, Doc," Marty warned him. _Get in here_.

"I'm throwing in the presto logs," Doc said into the walkie-talkie. "Marty, the new gauge in the DeLorean will show the boiler temperature. The color-coding indicates when each log will fire: green, yellow, and red. Each detonation will be accompanied by a sudden burst of acceleration. Hopefully, we'll get up to eighty-eight miles per hour before the needle hits two thousand."

"Right," said Marty, staring at the rushing scenery. "What happens when it hits two thousand?"

"The whole motor will explode," replied Doc, blandly, as if this eventuality meant nothing.

"Perfect," Marty muttered. "Hey, Doc, we just hit thirty-five! You'd better get in here, stat!"

"Okay, Marty!" Doc called back, sounding somewhat short of breath. "I'm coming aboard!"

That was when things went to hell, because last-minute was when things always _did_. While Doc was making his way along the side of the engine, the green log blew—and nothing happened. The DeLorean cruised at forty, and Marty chewed his thumbnail. Doc shouted when the yellow log blew, hesitating, asking Marty if he ought to go see what was wrong, maybe stoke the flames some more, and the DeLorean hit fifty-five.

 _We're too close to the ravine_ , thought Marty, disbelieving, _and not accelerating fast enough_.

"The red log's about to blow, Doc!" he shouted. "And we're only just pushing sixty!"

Doc groaned loudly in despair, banging the side of the train with his fist. " _Damn_!"

Marty realized he had to make a call, and fast. He knew that Doc would forgive him, because Doc always did, but he was probably going to hate _himself_ for bailing out. Still, it wasn't worth the risk; he _did_ want them to live. Clara's warning, the caution of his own conscience, whatever: it weighed on him. He fumbled around in the passenger-side floor well until he located the hoverboard.

"This isn't worth dying for, Doc!" he shouted, making his way to the passenger-side seat and locking the toe of his boot into the hoverboard's shoe-strap. "I'm coming to get you!"

"Marty, no!" Doc shouted. "I can make it! We're close to seventy from the feel of— _aaah_!"

 _Jesus, Doc,_ Marty thought, finding his balance on the hoverboard as the wind roared past him, and let go of the DeLorean. He had one chance to catch hold of Doc on his way past, and if he _didn't_ —

 _"Gotcha_!" Marty hissed, hauling Doc away from the doomed locomotive just as the red log blew.

"Oh my," Doc said, clinging to Marty, finding his footing on the hoverboard as they glided on. "You might want to watch this. It's not even going to make the edge. In five, four, three…"

Locomotive, DeLorean, and _all_ of it blew about five seconds before reaching the end of the line.

"You're right," said Marty, stunned, burying his face against Doc's shoulder. "It's spectacular."

"Thanks to your quick thinking, we've survived," Doc murmured, and Marty felt the shift of Doc's weight smoothly take over steering the hoverboard. "That's what matters. You said so yourself."

 _I hope to hell you're happy, wherever you are,_ Marty thought. _And I hope you found Mr. Poe._

About fifteen minutes later, jelly-legged, they packed up what was left of their camp-site and did their best to obliterate any sign that they'd ever been there. The walk back to town was tiring, and Marty was half afraid of what they were going to find when they got there. The train passengers would've had nowhere else to go, at least not till the next train came through on Thursday, and Hill Valley had already had _enough_ excitement for one day in the form of James Wilson taking down Buford Tannen. That and a train hijacking would surely prove too much to deem coincidence.

They almost made it back to Doc's blacksmith shop without being seen, but Annabel Lee was waiting for them when they reached Doc's front door. She had some lilacs tucked behind her ear, and she had clearly been pacing.

"The men down at the saloon said you two were on that train!" she said, waving to them. "When you weren't with the people who came up from the train cars, I was sore afraid you didn’t make it. The Mayor told me to wait here to see if you turned up, and he sent out some folks lookin' for you."

"We, uh," said Marty, so tired he could scarcely form words, "tried to stop the hijackers. They wanted the engine to sell for scrap. It picked up too much momentum and went over the ravine."

"It was a spectacular wreck," said Doc, seemingly at a loss for a fresh description. "Truly."

"Well, only thing that matters is you're safe," said Annabel Lee, pushing away from where she'd been leaning against the door. "What do you think of these?" she asked, showing off her lilacs.

"Seems to me you've got yourself a match, Miss Linton," said Doc, respectfully. "Felicitations."

Annabel beamed at Marty, so he grinned back at her. "I've got a feeling about you two," he said.

"James and Jonas found Mad Dog's rats," she said. "Three of 'em. Got the whole lot in prison."

"You'd best get home," Doc sighed, holding the door open for Marty. "Your parents will worry."

"My daddy's sorry!" she called back over her shoulder. "Sorry as anything! Good day to you!"

"Doc, I hate to say it, but I need a bath," Marty muttered before Doc could close the door behind them. "Think you've got enough to cover a double session for two? I'm in a tea-house mood."

While Clem wasn't happy to see them again so soon, he _was_ happy to see Doc’s money. Marty offered him an extra dollar to keep his mouth shut, just soap and rinse-buckets over the head and clean towels at the end, thank you _kindly_. He and Doc talked very little anyway, washing with a quiet sense of purpose. They were glad to be alive, but it didn't change the fact they were shaken.

On returning home a second time, they found the unfinished bottle of red-eye and a note from Chester. _Glad you ain't gone up to San Francisco_ , it said in his untidy scrawl. _Take it easy now_.

"We aren't gonna chug this," said Marty, flashing Doc a smile as he closed the door behind them.

"Of course not," said Doc, removing his hat, setting it aside on the desk. He looked exhausted and ridiculous with his flyaway hair still damp, and he was, at that moment, the _most_ welcome sight.

Marty sighed and took off his hat, throwing it down on the cot. He took off his shirt, no-nonsense, and unshouldered his suspenders. He kicked out of his boots, but he left his trousers on. He and Doc were worn-out, but the tension was strung between them now as taut as a knife's edge.

"I think you were supposed to be with her, Doc," he said. "You were supposed to be _happy_."

Doc shrugged, spreading his hands in supplication, and walked over to where Marty stood. He'd gotten rid of his boots and unbuttoned his shirt, his long johns sticking to skin still damp from the bath.  "Maybe I was," he said, "but that chance has come and gone, Marty, and _chance_ is exactly what it was. We have no control over the vagaries of fate, as lay-people call it. Weren't you supposed to be with Jennifer? By that kind of emotion-driven logic, all signs now point to the fact that I'm supposed to be with _you_. In the absence of chances past, isn't it wisest to take the one, no less precious, that's staring you right in the face?" He tilted his head at Marty. "I've been happy."

"Happy in the past, you mean?" Marty asked, and then closed his eyes. "In the future. I _mean_ …"

"I mean that I've been happy, maybe happier than I've ever been, since you came along," Doc said.

Marty opened his eyes, felt relief wash over him almost as fiercely as the impulse he'd been squashing for nearly forty-eight hours. Maybe even _longer_ , and he realized that trying to pinpoint exactly when it had started wasn't worth the effort. "I've been happy as long as I've known you, too, Doc," he said, "although I know that, in a way, it's been way longer for you than it's been for me." He stepped in closer to Doc, unbuttoning the top of his long johns, exposing his chest to the unexpectedly cool air of the room. "So I guess this is my way of saying, _ah_ _—_ thanks for waiting." 

"On the contrary," said Doc, ever the perfect gentleman, waiting for Marty to nod before finishing the job for him, " _this_ is because I owe you, and you even threatened to hold me to it." He circled Marty's nipples with his thumbs, gauging Marty's response. "Consider me well and truly held."

Doc's hands on him were gentle, questioning, and Marty had to lean harder into the kiss and suck on Doc's lower lip just to get the point across that it was okay to undress him the whole way, yeah, _really_. Even with all of Marty exposed and at his mercy (after a few hilarious seconds in which Marty almost tripped trying to help Doc get him out of his trousers, his suspenders, and impractical underwear combined), Doc stood there with Marty's face cupped in his hands and kissed him like that's all he wanted to do for hours on end. Marty took hold of Doc's hands and ran them over his chest, his belly, his hips; Doc got the message and pulled Marty in by the buttocks, kneading with a sigh. 

"Let's get you outta these, huh?" asked Marty, hoarsely, and undid every single button down the front of Doc's body that he could find. Doc stopped kissing him long enough to let Marty strip him down to the waist and then push him down to sit on the edge of the mattress. Marty went down on his knees and got Doc's clothes off him the easy way, no tripping necessary. _This isn't as scary as I thought it would be_ , Marty realized. _Maybe because it's not the girl next door who I'm terrified might not remain as impressed with me as I am with her._

"Easy," Doc said, stroking his thumb along Marty's lower lip, shivering when Marty let his tongue dart out to taste it. "You looked _—_ apprehensive for a moment, and I don't want you to think that I expect _anything_ more than _—_ that is, Marty, I _don't_ have expectations. I want you to know _—_ " 

"Let's just assume what I want is a no-holds-barred chance to do whatever feels right, got it?" Marty said, and kissed him just for the sake of some goddamn piece and quiet. While he had Doc's mouth occupied, he let his hands roam a bit more bravely than Doc had let his do with Marty. Doc's sides were ticklish, check. Doc's nipples weren't particularly sensitive, roger that, but his belly and the spot between his shoulder blades and even the small of his back, _holy_ shit. Marty took pity on Doc and took Doc's erection between his palms, savoring the feel of it. 

Doc forced himself to stop kissing Marty and rested his forehead against Marty's, his hands lightly encircling Marty's wrists. "If you kept kissing me, if you kept your hands just like that," he said in a low voice, "I wouldn't be able to help myself." He kissed Marty's temple, his cheek, his jaw. 

"Then why'd you stop kissing me, Doc?" Marty asked, caressing him with slow, light strokes. Without lube, this would prove to be something of a challenge, but Marty liked nothing better. "Would you let me try something else?" 

"I'd let you try whatever the hell you wanted even if you were wearing nothing but that goddamn gun-belt of yours," Doc muttered, and Marty couldn't help but laugh in surprise. "I'm not asking for that," Doc insisted. "Not right now." 

"Then let's go with this," Marty said, pausing to give himself a few strokes while he kept one hand on Doc, hissing with the pleasure of it. The next thing he did was bow his head. "We're good, yeah?" he asked, turning the entirety of his attention back on Doc, and Doc nodded.

When Marty buried his face between Doc's thighs, nuzzling just to get the sense and feel of this, Doc moaned like Marty was already sucking him, running his fingers appreciatively through Marty's hair. Once, some assholes at school had taunted him about Doc, had asked him what it was like to suck wrinkly geezer dick; Marty had insisted they'd got it all wrong, but wasn’t that kind of a dumb thing to say, given most dicks were wrinkly anyway, their own inadequately-sized ones included? He'd narrowly missed getting a fist in the nose. Marty saw even more humor in it now, face to face with a prospect no more intimidating than what _he_ had, and gave Doc a teasing lick.

Doc kept stroking Marty's hair, his breath turning short and uneven when Marty used his teeth.

"Marty," he rasped after a minute or so, just as Marty took in his length halfway, " _Marty_. That's enough. Come here." He tugged Marty up by the shoulders till he was standing, wrapped an arm around his waist, and then bent his head to return the favor without _any_ kind of warning.

Marty's knees buckled, jostling the head of his dick out of Doc's mouth. "Oh God," he said, using the momentum of Doc catching him to fold forward and crawl into Doc's lap. “Not gonna make it,” he gasped, pushing against Doc’s belly while they kissed. "Jesus, Doc. Yeah, _fuck_. I want—"

Doc kissed him, demanding, not as patient as before. If kissing was really the key to making Doc lose his mind, then this wasn't going to, oh, oh _God_. Marty whimpered, already starting to come; he'd wanted to hold out, had wanted unclouded thoughts so he could watch Doc, but no dice.

Doc was quiet, _so_ quiet when he came, just as Marty was starting to catch his breath. "Thank you," Doc whispered, or at least that's what Marty _thought_ he'd heard. He pressed his mouth to the side of Doc's neck, sighing, rocking him till he was still. This was more than he'd expected.

Marty woke up several seconds later to Doc shaking him. "You didn't sleep well last night, did you?"

"I dreamed," Marty admitted, wrapping his arms tight around Doc's neck, content to be lifted and laid back against the pillows, which were still dusty from their ill-fated outing. "It was a hectic dream."

"Then you need rest," Doc said, smoothing back Marty's hair. "I'll get us cleaned up. Go to sleep."

"Love ya, Doc," sighed Marty, grabbing Doc's wrist as he turned to rise. "I hope you know that."

" _Shhh_ , Marty," replied Doc, squeezing his hand, "I never doubted. The sentiment's returned."

 _Delivered_ , Marty thought, drifting off, and then started awake again. "Hey, d'you think—?"

"Do I think what?" Doc asked, returning with a cloth. "I'm all ears, Marty. What've you got?"

"We could keep trying," Marty mumbled. "Hey, no hurry, but—you could find another way."

Doc paused, his hand going still against Marty's hip with the cloth. "Another way to what?"

"Another way back," Marty said, touching the back of Doc's hand. "Nothing's impossible."

"Back?" asked Doc, continuing what he'd been doing. "Marty, you're raving. _Please_ rest."

Marty squeezed Doc's wrist, drifting off. "You know where," he replied. "We have time."

 


	2. Bending the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It depends which way you bend the light. See to it the lens doesn't break._

**September 8, 1885**

Marty yawned and stretched, tightening his closed eyes against the surprising lack of brightness. Something about the quality of light in their surroundings had changed since Doc had cleaned them up and climbed back into bed. They'd clearly fallen asleep after—well, _after_. Marty rolled back from the edge of the mattress, which he could feel beneath his outstretched palm; Doc's arm curled around his waist made for a tempting invitation. Doc's solid warmth, his bare skin flush against Marty's, made Marty melt. Sleepily, he nuzzled Doc's shoulder.

Whether the action had awakened Doc or he'd already been lightly drowsing, Marty wasn't certain. The immediacy with which Doc tangled their limbs, pulling Marty closer still, sent shivers down Marty's spine in tandem with the careful progress of Doc's fingertips in the same direction. With a soft hum, Marty latched his mouth onto the nearest patch of skin he could reach.

"You'll find we've slept much longer than you realize," Doc murmured, squeezing him gently.

"So it's not Monday anymore?" Marty asked, suspiciously opening one eye to near-darkness.

"All sensory input, including birdsong, points to _extremely_ early Tuesday morning," Doc replied. He kissed Marty's forehead, idly letting his fingers creep back up to the small of Marty's back once they reached his tailbone. "I'm afraid we'll have to open if there's any chance at resuming business as usual. I'd rather not risk too many more inquiries into our whereabouts yesterday."

"I think you need to relax," Marty said, sucking at the spot on Doc's neck that he'd until then only been licking. When Doc jumped, stifling a burst of laughter, Marty wedged his thigh snugly between Doc's. "Annabel was so relieved to see us that I seriously think we dodged a bullet."

"I suppose the bottle Chester left also points in that direction," Doc sighed, relaxing into the attention. One of his hands mapped its way from Marty's waist to his ribcage, fingers splaying with languid intent. "If we assume general civic goodwill, maybe they'd forgive temporary closure."

"You're not leaving this bed till I say so, Doc," Marty informed him, "and that's a fact."

Tipping Marty's chin up to give him a careful, lingering kiss, Doc didn't hesitate to roll Marty onto his back, propping himself on his elbows so Marty didn't take the full brunt of his weight. Marty arched into the kiss, spreading his legs to accommodate Doc, his stomach turning a pleased somersault. Yeah, there was no _way_ he'd have let Doc get up and return to business as usual with both of them this turned-on.

Doc blinked down at him, hazy and smitten. "That's fair," he said, bending to breathe against Marty's ear, rolling his hips. "You didn't let me finish something I considered important yesterday. An experiment, if you will. May I continue?"

"Oh _man_ ," Marty groaned, covering his face with both hands as Doc threw back the covers and shifted to kneel between Marty's legs, fingertips trailing caresses from Marty's hipbones to his knees. "If you're gonna do that, I can't imagine..." He whimpered at the feel of Doc's cheek coming to rest against his belly, day-old stubble rasping gently as he kissed the spot just beneath Marty's navel. "You won't get your money's worth."

"If speed's your concern, Marty," Doc told him, taking Marty's erection loosely in his grasp, steadying it as he parted his lips wetly against the underside of the head, "I think you've misunderstood. I don't care whether this takes thirty minutes or thirty _seconds_."

"Oh my God," Marty panted, swallowing as Doc drew almost all of him in. "Oh my G— _ah_." He scrabbled blindly at the pillowcase, the coverlet, the sheets; when Doc took hold of his hands, guiding them comfortingly to rest in Doc's hair, he whimpered. He'd hadn't been prepared for this, not even given the brief touch of Doc's tongue the afternoon before.

"If at any point," Doc said, pulling off to nip at Marty's inner thigh, "it's too much, please—"

"Too much talking," Marty cut in, breathless, raking his restless fingers through Doc's hair as Doc swallowed him again. "Oh my _God_. I knew that mouth of yours was good for, like, you know, talking my goddamn _ear_ off, but— _Jesus_!" Too much, too much in the _best_ fucking way possible. "Doc, I'm gonna—would you _listen_ to me, I'm—"

Doc just squeezed Marty's hands, sucking with even more stubborn insistence than before.

Marty tried to prevent his hips from snapping up as orgasm washed over him with overwhelming intensity. He also tried to keep quiet, but that worked about as well as his intention _not_ to choke Doc. Coughing, Doc started in surprise, letting Marty slip out of his mouth, but just as quickly took him in hand, stroking him through the aftershocks with a low, pleased murmur.

Marty went limp against the sheets, breathing hard as the sensation ebbed from him. "I love you," he sighed, vaguely frustrated that Doc, ever the gentleman, had snagged the rag off the nightstand and was already cleaning Marty up—in spite of how badly be probably needed to get off. "Did I say that already? Because I do. I can't think of anybody else who'd just put this on hold—"

"You've missed a spectacular falling star just now," Doc said evenly, pointing off to one side, indicating the window over his desk. "Out there, over the hills. We ought to go gazing again."

"Not till I've taken care of you, too," Marty said, snatching the rag out of Doc's hand, tossing it down on the floor. "Would you just—okay, lie down. Yeah. _Mmm_ ," Marty said, settling against Doc's side as Doc situated himself on his back. He slid his hand from where it rested over Doc's heart down to his belly button, fanning his fingers lower until he found what he was after. "Gotta work on my stamina, huh? I bet you can go for hours."

"I love you, too," Doc said, voice strained, touching Marty's cheek. "I'm reasonably sure I could—"

"So modest," Marty mumbled into a greedy, impulsive kiss as he stroked Doc's hard-on. "You are the _hottest_ thing I ever—for real, Doc. Don't look at me like that. I can't even believe I got lucky enough to convince you I'm worth the trouble, _so_ —"

"You're worth everything," Doc gasped as Marty kissed his way from the hollow of Doc's throat down to his breastbone. "I'd have followed you over the edge of that ravine if you hadn't—"

"Be _quiet_ ," Marty hissed, finally taking Doc in his mouth just like he'd wanted to the day before. Same taste as he remembered from the slight tonguing he'd managed, plain lye soap tinged with sweat. He took Doc's length in as far as he could manage, deciding that wasn't conducive to nuanced attention, although Doc's strangled cry suggested the maneuver had been useful.

"I meant it," Doc rasped, giving in to the pace Marty had established with the slide of his lips and the push of his tongue, losing his fingers in Marty's hair. "Every word, Marty. And I—I _might_ —"

"Aw, _shhh_ ," Marty sighed, holding Doc's erection steady while he switched to lapping just under the head, remembering what sensation had sent _him_ flying just moments before. Doc was probably going to come all over his face, but that thought in and of itself was thrilling.

"Come here," Doc choked, and by the time Marty had found himself yanked up to lie full against Doc, yeah, _there_ it was. So Doc was coming all over Marty's belly and thighs instead, but, shit, Marty could live with that given Doc was such a fantastic kisser even while losing his mind.

"Don't you dare move," Marty told Doc once he'd stopped shaking with it, crawling over the edge of the mattress to find the rag on the floor. He snagged it and got back into bed as fast as he could, wondering just what good it would do when they'd already used it a few times. Doc's sheets took more of the damage than the rag, probably, but there were still enough dry covers to hide in. "Getting a little brighter out there, but I'm still not gonna let you get up," Marty said. Doc's only answer was a half-asleep hum, so he cuddled closer.

Before time travel, before _everything_ , he'd had some kind of half-assed idea about falling in love, all right. It had done very little to prepare him for the real thing: the life-and-death severity of it, the sheer and gritty mess. Sharing a life meant sharing a bed; it meant sharing the sticky inconveniences you'd been brought up to hide, to feel ashamed of. Now, it didn't feel inconvenient _or_ shameful.

When someone knocked at the smithy door about forty-five minutes later, Doc was out cold, so Marty got up, chased down enough clothes to cover the important stuff, and answered it. "Hello?"

"I'm mighty relieved to see _one_ of you on your feet," said Chester, hat in hand, sufficiently apologetic for Marty to decide calling on them at eight was forgivable. "Mr. Eastwood. How's Emmett, then? Feelin' them after-effects? Can't say I'd blame you for finishing that red-eye."

"We, uh, had a few," Marty lied, touching the brim of his hat, which had been a ridiculous touch to add given he hadn't had time to throw on a shirt with his trousers and boots. "Everything all right?"

"Truth of the matter is," Chester sighed regretfully, "Joey and the Missus put up a real fuss about the windows being shot out. Seeing as you're only the 'prentice, I've got to take it up with—"

"Of course we'll pay it off," Marty agreed readily. "Just get a new quote from your, er...glass..."

"The glazier doesn't come 'round as often as we'd like," said Chester, "but I've sent word to her."

"Good," Marty yawned, patting Chester on the shoulder. "Anything else I can help you with?"

"Emmett's put an awful lot of trust in you right from the off, finances and all," Chester remarked, clapping the back of Marty's hand, "and I can't help but feel he's made a sound decision. Martin."

"Marty," he insisted, releasing the bartender, grinning as the man departed. "Don't be a stranger."

"At an estimate," Doc grumbled once Marty had stripped down and rejoined him in bed, "that repair will cost us at _least_ the eighty dollars Mad Dog was bellyaching about. Quintana's one of those homesteads out beyond the McFly farm, and she doesn't come cheap. It cost me a hefty sum to have her repair and replace the windows in this structure, run-down as it was."

"What goes around comes around, Doc," Marty yawned, clinging to him. "Go back to sleep."

 

**September 11, 1885**

Marty grinned at William, bouncing the baby in his lap while Seamus, in the chair next to him, looked on in amusement. "Hey, buddy. Somebody better have changed you not too long ago."

"The clout's a fresh one!" insisted Maggie, irritably, from over in the kitchen area, bringing her cleaver down again while Doc watched her progress with several freshly-skinned rabbits Seamus and Marty had brought in from their shooting session not an hour before. "Mr. Brown, I _know_ how to sort these. Coney's our dinner more often than not."

"Not as this dish, it isn't," Doc said. " _Hasenpfeffer_ has a trick to it, and that's making sure you've cracked enough bones to let some marrow stew in. Make sure the next joint..."

Marty tuned out of the conversation, letting them bicker at each other over the finer points of German cookery. William grabbed Marty's nose, sticking out his tiny tongue. "Those are some impressive spit bubbles," he told the baby. "Are you practicing for the championship?"

"I doubt we're raisin' us any great athlete of the expectoratin' variety," said Seamus, dubiously, reaching to brush at his son's dandelion-fluff hair. "I can't get over how he's warmed to you."

"I was never _terrible_ with kids, I guess," Marty said, letting William lay his soft head against Marty's shoulder. "Hey, look at you. Sleepy boy." He rocked William, watching as the baby shoved his fist in his mouth and closed his eyes. "My...extended family had some little ones."

Seamus regarded Marty for a moment, his expression increasingly troubled. "I've said it before, but I'll say it again," he sighed. "You remind me of Martin something _fierce_ , not just in your manner. There's an aspect about the eyes and forehead," he continued, indicating the upper portion of his own face. "Even the nose a bit. If not for your dark hair, I'd have sworn you were his ghost come calling by daylight. That'd give me a fright."

The back of Marty's neck prickled, his hair standing on end. He couldn't help but think of Clara's nocturnal visitations, couldn't help but wonder if he'd found someone who wouldn't call him crazy for more than half believing he was being haunted. "Do you dream about him?" he asked quietly.

Seamus gave a slow nod. "The Sight's different from family to family," he said. "For some, it's knowing what may come, but I'd never say my version's gone so far. I've got a knack for knowin' what's important, _who's_ important, my grandfather said, but it's rare I can predict a damn thing." His gaze darkened, locking with Marty's. "Ghosts, now. We know spirits, we McFlys."

"That's news to me," Marty blurted before he could kill the words. "I mean, I wouldn't have—"

"What kind of damn fool name is Eastwood," Seamus asked him plaintively, "and just which one of my father's city-boy cousins sent you out here? I'm not as much of a fool as you'd like to think."

Marty opened his mouth, shut it again, and rubbed William's back a little when he fussed. "I, um," he stammered, not certain how he ought to play this now he'd been given the chance to reclaim his birthright. "I thought it sounded...dashing," he said lamely. "So I'm a McFly, fine, you found me out. Can't we just let bygones be bygones? I don't like to talk about my family. It's too painful."

Seamus lowered his eyes, chewing his lip. "Can't blame you. Da never exchanged letters with Liam and his lot; they had a falling-out. It's a shame there's been such bad blood," he sighed.

"I'll drop Eastwood as long as you don't think anybody'd find it too weird," Marty offered, smiling at Seamus, so relieved he might cry. "I just don't want anybody to think I had something to hide."

"Do you have any idea how many young men turn up out here sportin' names they weren't born with?" Seamus asked, about ready to laugh. "Why, I'm amazed you haven't switched to Brown."

Marty's jaw dropped slightly, as if the conversation hadn't turned strange enough. "Wait, _what_?"

"I know he's your lover, Marty," said Seamus, sternly. "You can't hide it. There's a glow on you."

"I, ah...can't deny that, I guess," Marty sighed, nuzzling William. "You're sharp, you know that?"

"Emmett's been courteous, I hope—nothing untoward?" Seamus asked, his manner forthright with concern. "Not that I'd expect it of him, fine and upstanding gentleman he is, but I felt it important to ask. Comes of having seen my brother roughed-up one too many times, you understand."

"That stuff you mentioned about him the day we buried Miss Clayton..." Marty steeled himself; in for a penny, in for the whole damn _jar_. "Jesus, I'm sorry. There's no polite way to ask. Is it because he was..." _Gay? Is that a term yet? Back this far, I bet it's all biblical or read-between-the-lines like that shit we heard from those guys at the bath-house._ "Like me and Doc?"

"Seeing as he was my twin, otherwise identical to the letter," replied Seamus, resigned to giving an explanation, "there was no hiding it from day one that Martin had a difference. No hiding it from _me_ , at least. I don't doubt our parents refused to see it, and they'd have done so even if we hadn't left Ballyboughal. We ended up in Dublin a few years at first, just Martin and me, working odd jobs; that's where I met a lass named Margaret Healy. Martin took well to her comin' in, and a good thing, too, because none of us could afford more than to share a place. Maggie never could sleep. She'd wait up for him, often even meet the ones he brought home. I rarely saw them, shooed off again as they were by first light. The nights he came in alone's mostly when we saw it—black eyes, bruises, a broken heart. Not even once we left would he give it up, although that's not to say we ever asked. We begged him to be careful, that was only ever all. We thought he'd found love once or twice on the way from Boston to Virginia City, but neither of those roughnecks would pick up and join us. I liked the one in Topeka; Antonio, brown-eyed Italian lad. He was all right."

"Your twin," was all Marty could think to repeat, even in light of the rest of it. "You lost your _twin brother_ in a bar fight because somebody was an asshole about implying they knew that he..." Marty swallowed. "They were trying to get him to say it, weren't they? Get him to own up to it in order to disgrace him. And he wouldn't, and that's why they called him a coward."

"It's death in this world for some, Marty, the path on which you and your Emmett are set," said Seamus, gravely. "Make no mistake. There are those who'll hate you once they suss it out."

The sound of Doc clearing his throat just across the table from them, hat in hand, his manner almost contrite, broke the tense spell Seamus had woven. "May I ask your permission, Seamus, to step out for a while with your lovely wife? We're lacking some seasoning, wild sage mostly."

"Oh, aye," said Seamus, agreeably, his perpetual smile returning. "Sunset's comin' on fast. Heaven knows I've never been one for that hearts and flowers stuff, you get to it. Much obliged, Emmett."

Maggie was already over next to the door, primly tying her bonnet in place. "Some good you are."

"I'm all the good in the world for ya, Mags," said Seamus, winking at Marty. "We'll mind Willie."

"I don't think I have much choice in the matter," Marty volunteered. "I'm a living mattress here!"

Doc grinned at him as he set his hat on his head. "Maybe you can mind him next time Seamus and Maggie would like some time alone," he ventured, heading for the door. " _We_ could—"

"And risk him crawlin' into one of your infernal machines?" Maggie crowed. "I think _not_!"

Once Doc and Maggie had vanished into the dusk, their laughter echoing behind them, Seamus went over to the fire and fetched what was left of the coffee he'd made, refilling their copper mugs.

"Still sleeping badly, Mr. Eastwood?" he asked, offering Marty his top-up. "Want to talk about it?"

"From now on," said Marty, resolutely, "call me McFly. And yeah, I guess if you want to listen..."

 _I'm in over my head, Clara,_ he thought desperately. _Please tell me you'll come back._

 

**September 16, 1885**

There was something unnerving about Marty's surroundings, something undeniably _off_ about waking to find himself hay-strewn in Seamus's barn. For a moment, he thought maybe he was having a flashback to Old Man Peabody's place, but the construction here was more vast and sound. A pair of horses regarded him with placid expectation, and _that's_ when he realized...

 _Seamus only has one horse_ , Marty said to the shadowed figure standing next to the stall.

Clara stepped into the shaft of moonlight streaming through the round, high window. _Good evening, Marty,_ she said with a cordial, restrained smile, gloved hands folded on her valise.

 _I hope you had a good trip,_ said Marty, and instantly regretted his phrasing. _I mean—_

 _Edgar sends regards to Annabel,_ Clara went on, _but he seemed disappointed she wasn't the genuine article._ She dusted off her bodice. _I cut my travels short. You wanted to see me?_

 _Seamus is onto me,_ Marty sighed, rubbing the side of his neck. _He knows I'm not what I claimed to be when I got here. He's even convinced me to start calling myself McFly._

 _But you_ are _a McFly,_ Clara said. _As much as you're a Brown now, I understand?_

Marty sighed, staring up at the rafters in exasperation. _Glad to know you're taking it so well._

 _You knew that it was my express wish to see you both happy,_ Clara reminded him. _Those kisses went over very well, didn't they? You're handsome when you blush._

 _Nobody warned me nineteenth-century teasing would be this ruthless,_ Marty lamented. _Listen, Clara. I'm getting nervous. What if Seamus keeps asking questions? What do I tell him?_

 _The truth, I imagine,_ said Clara, absently, turning back to stroke her roan mare's muzzle.

 _No way,_ Marty sighed, trying to brush himself off, but to no avail. Even his clothing in dream-space was off; he was wearing the terrible outfit Doc had gotten him in 1955. _Too risky._

 _What's risky is losing the trust of the only family you now have,_ Clara replied. _Or will._

 _You don't know that,_ Marty replied. _What if Doc manages to build a new time machine?_

Clara tilted her head at him, eyes alight with the challenge. _It would take at least a decade._

Marty considered this, his heart sinking. _I have no idea how I'd explain coming home to 1985 ten years older than they last saw me. And overnight, even. To them, I mean. My family._

 _To be fair, time has been on your side,_ said Clara, in amusement. _Seamus has aged well, hasn't he? He's thirty if he's a day, maybe more, but look at him. Baby-faced as can be._

 _How's this for a cosmic joke?_ Marty asked. _Seamus was born in eighteen fifty-five._

 _Then I'm still a keen judge of fine male specimens_ , Clara said, winking. _Tell him_.

 _Tell him what?_ Marty asked. _That decades ending in five haunt me worse than you?_

With that, Marty woke in a cold sweat, scrabbling at the empty covers. Doc was gone, but by now that wasn't any shocker. Most mornings, Doc had gone back to keeping his rise-with-the-chickens habit; he tended to come back inside around the time he knew Marty would stir, sometimes speeding the process along. Sometimes said speeding didn't _actually_ amount to expeditiousness, and sometimes they ended up dozing in each other's arms for a while. If Doc's productivity had taken a nose-dive since Marty's arrival, oddly enough, nobody had complained.

Marty found a note on the nightstand, and, with it, both a beaker of iced tea sweating out the last of its chill _and_ a plate of stale, jam-spread toast. Annabel Lee's mother had brought them some plum preserves, obviously less fussed than her husband that the match Marty had helped her daughter make was unconventional by their standards. Marty stuck a piece of toast in his mouth, scanning the note. The manner in which Doc had adapted his handwriting was something else.

_Dear Marty—Don't be alarmed if you come looking and can't find me. Gone roaming farther afield, thought I could do with some fresh air. The backlog's clear for now, so you might as well find some other way to occupy yourself. This might be an opportune time to acquaint yourself with some of my books. You've always been more of a reader than you let on. Ever yours, Doc._

"Yeah, you'd start with that lovey-dovey shit, wouldn't you, and leave me here hanging," Marty sighed, finishing off the toast in a few bites. "I want you back in bed, but that's not gonna happen."

He wolfed down the other piece of toast, gulped the tea with a grimace, and washed up as best he could with the pitcher and basin. He'd already made it abundantly clear that plumbing and hot water were the next developments he expected on the inventions front; Doc, sensing that some decrease in amorous activity might result if he failed to deliver, had got down to business drawing up schematics and interrogating various catalogues for parts at his disposal. Marty dressed quickly, dispensing with his usual outer layer. The poncho needed washing, but he hadn't figured out the best method. Doc had implied he'd get around to it. He put on his hat and gun-belt, though.

Somebody knocked on the door just as Marty was tidying up Doc's breakfast odds and ends (he'd be _damned_ if they got rats because Doc was absent-minded about housekeeping). Much to his dismay, Annabel Lee stood there out of breath with both hands pressed to her not inconsiderable bosom. Marty cleared his throat, studying her face for a clue as to why she'd rushed over.

"Marty, 'morning, so sorry for the trouble," Annabel panted. "I wish you'd come down to the Marshall's office and pay James a visit, pardon my saying so. He's _sore_ vexed."

"Let me guess," Marty sighed, stepping outside, pulling the door shut behind him. "This new deputy's-assistant gig puts him in pretty close proximity with the jail's current population?"

"He's got nobody proper to talk to!" Annabel huffed. "And them callin' him _names_."

"Any word on when Mad Dog and his groupies are getting carted out of here?" Marty asked, offering Annabel his arm as they walked along the street. Several other residents greeted them.

"Groupies," Annabel repeated, perhaps charmed by the word. "I'd call that accurate. _Well_. The authorities from San Francisco are due in on Monday's train. They're taking 'em then."

"Five more days, huh," Marty replied, chewing his lip. "That's really not the best news, is it."

James came onto the jailhouse porch as Marty and Annabel approached, touching the brim of his hat. He looked sharp with a brass badge denoting his new status, there was no question. Marty had drunk a decent amount of moonshine with James, Jonas, and Jonas's brother ( _Call me Zeke_ , he'd said, finally shaking Marty's hand) several days before when James had been awarded the honor. Doc hadn't been terribly pleased with Marty's hangover, although he'd fussed over him.

Buford stuck his nose out the window, hands wrapped around the bars. "Well, _lookie_ here."

"If you don't shut your hole," James snapped, "there'll be hell to pay when the Marshall gets back."

"If it ain't the blacksmith's pretty-boy bringin' me some skirt to chase," Buford sneered. "Mornin'!"

"Ain't they keepin' you supplied with enough mutton?" asked Annabel, coolly. "Mornin' yourself."

"Don't mean no harm, darlin'," Buford drawled, looking straight at Marty. "If she won't play, maybe—"

"Maybe the guy who's always correcting your grammar would be up for it," Marty suggested. "I bet it never even crossed your mind that maybe one or two of your tag-alongs had a thing for—"

"There ain't none of _that_ funny business with me and mine," Buford snarled. "But I'd thrash you hard, Eastwood, and then give it to you good before slittin' your throat. Or ain't that your name anymore, if what I'm hearin' happens to be right? Like it when _he_ does it? Your big, strong smithy?"

Marty let go of Annabel's arm, walking up to the window. "Gentlemen don't use knives, Mad Dog."

"Or Derringers," James said, clucking his tongue. "What did _you_ want with a lady's weapon?"

Buford snuffled something incoherent and vanished back inside the cell. "Sissies!" he shouted.

"You sure showed me!" Marty shot back, returning James's smile. "Good morning. Sorry, too."

"No apologies needed," James reassured him. "Refreshing to hear him go off on someone else."

"That knobhead'll heckle the hangman," Annabel said, folding her arms. "Godspeed him, I say."

"Do they hang people in San Francisco?" Marty asked warily. "Won't he be tried and sentenced?"

"Lord, where have _you_ been," said James, whistling. "He's wanted for more counts of murder than I can rightly remember. More than any white man'll deign to count, if you follow."

 _Twelve men, not including Indians or Chinamen,_ Marty thought blackly, flinching as he recalled the newspaper article's wording. "I wish you'd shot him in the head instead of the shoulder," he told James without hesitation. "It probably would've saved lots of trouble."

"Wish I had, too," James agreed evenly. "He was moving, so I'm lucky I got him at all."

"Wasn't dumb luck, Jim," Annabel insisted, mounting the stairs to join him. "You know it."

"I should think not," said a familiar voice from behind Marty. "You youngsters have all got fine aim, whereas I'm left to make do with whatever sight-augmentation I can cobble together."

"Doc, I'm pretty sure you could hit the broad side of a barn even without it," Marty said, turning to face him with his hands in his pockets. "Did you have a nice stroll without me?"

Annabel clucked her tongue. "Now, Doc _Brown_ ," she said, and Marty did a double-take. It was the first time he'd heard someone else refer to him like that. "It's not nice leavin' him behind."

"My apologies, Miss Linton," said Doc, removing his hat, using it to cover his heart. "Never again."

"Never again, least not if'n somebody _blows his brains out_!" Buford howled from within.

"What a pleasure to hear you so well!" Doc said mildly, raising his voice. He took Marty's arm protectively, and Marty wondered if that was any kind of risk. "I hope you enjoy San Francisco!"

"Pretty as a picture," Annabel said, beaming down at them, patting James's arm. "Ain't we all?"

"I wouldn't put much money on myself," said Marty, leaning into Doc, "but otherwise? Sure."

 

**September 21, 1885**

Marty slipped out of bed, eyes raw with sleep, to find Doc seated and scrawling at the desk. As far as his prospects of pulling off a successful distraction maneuver, he _was_ naked. That ought to work in his favor. He padded over so quietly that Doc didn't even seem to notice. He reached over Doc's shoulder, pinching the non-business-end of Doc's pen between thumb and forefinger.

"What's that?" he asked, dislodging the pen from Doc's grasp. "Doesn't look like plumbing to me."

Doc sat back and sighed, watching Marty set the pen on the ledge up above with his books, drawing Marty's left arm over his shoulder to parallel Marty's right, kissing each of Marty's inner forearms in turn. "As you can see, I'm working on a sign for the business. I've put it off long enough."

Marty leaned over Doc's shoulder to study the paper, nuzzling the back of Doc's head while he was at it. "Brown and McFly, Blacksmiths. I guess that'll go a long way to informing everyone of the name-change," he sighed. "Name-reversion. Whatever. I'll let Seamus handle the PR. He's good."

Doc pushed his chair back just far enough from the desk to let Marty disentangle from their present configuration and step around to insinuate himself between Doc and his work. Marty set the paper aside carefully, testing the desk, perhaps unwisely, by planting his butt squarely against it.

"If you're prepared to risk splinters," Doc warned, already leaning up for a kiss, "I'll allow..."

"Looks like finished enough wood to me," Marty mumbled, closing his eyes, settling Doc's hands at his hips while he shifted up to sit there. His legs dangled, which was what he'd been afraid of.

"Since this is the closest thing to a honeymoon our circumstances can provide," Doc said, kissing Marty's neck, wasting no time in the application of his hands to the expanse of Marty's chest, "I'll allow it. We'll need to be careful," he added, reaching over Marty's shoulders to close the shutters.

Doc gave excellent head and even _better_ hand-jobs. In the couple weeks they'd been at this, that was Marty's expertly qualified assessment. Still dizzy with the aftermath of his climax, Marty wrapped his arms around Doc's neck, kissing him in between tersely-issued instructions regarding how Marty would like Doc to touch himself. At least the floor was the only thing that suffered.

Breathless with his own orgasm, Doc pressed feverish kisses against Marty's neck. "You should get dressed," he said ruefully, putting his trousers back together. "I have some forge-work to do."

"I haven't seen many people beating down our door for horseshoes these past few days, Doc," Marty groused, pressing his lips to Doc's cheek with a sigh. "Who commissioned you, and what for?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Doc said. "It's craftsmanship of a sensitive and experimental nature."

"Fine, whatever," Marty replied. "You go outside and take care of that. We needed groceries _yesterday_ , so I guess I'll hit up the bath-house and then see what Annabel's got in stock."

Clem seemed happier to see Marty than he usually was, probably owing to the fact that that morning's train had kept him supplied with a steady stream of customers since daybreak. One more customer—one prone to _chattering_ , at that—meant one more dollar in the tidy fistfuls he'd made. Marty made small-talk with a pair of real-estate-seeking brothers named Caruthers; one of them liked to cook in his spare time. Marty said he thought Chester's son Joey could use the competition, which wasn't too big a risk. Lou's ancestors had already made up their minds.

About half an hour later, dried and dressed again, Marty made his way to Linton Mercantile. He found Annabel engaged in animated conversation with a pair of young ladies that he didn't recognize. The delicate, vivid print of their dresses made him think that perhaps they'd come in on the train. Marty removed his hat and ducked his head when all three women looked his way.

"Marty McFly, haven't _you_ just been man of the hour," Annabel said. "I'm almost relieved Seamus has been clearing up that Eastwood nonsense. Who were you out to impress?"

It was novel to hear Annabel raise her diction a bit in order to show off for the city folk. "I guess I felt safer under a pseudonym," Marty replied, noting uncomfortably that the younger of the two strangers, blonde and hardly more than a girl, hadn't taken her eyes off him. "But I'm staying, so there's no sense in hiding when my own distant relations would've eventually found me out."

"Seamus?" said the older of the two young women, dark-haired and shrewd. "That Irishman back there? The one you introduced when he came through a few minutes ago, Miss Linton?"

"You look like him, Marty," said the younger girl, edging closer. "You've got his pretty eyes."

 _Not this again_ , Marty thought, taking a step back. "He's, ah...my dad was his...cousin."

"Pity you didn't get the ginger hair," sniffed the older one. "I quite fancy a red-headed man."

 _You and me both_ , Marty thought, fondly remembering the pictures he'd seen of Doc when he was younger. Those were lost to him now, closed off in an unreachable century. "You ought to see his wife, Maggie," he said. "She's beautiful. And their baby, William? What a cute kid."

Annabel had withdrawn her handkerchief and was pretending to sneeze, but Marty knew the sound of her laughter well enough. "You've got to pardon our McFly boys," she said. "Rough around the edges, and this one here's so devoted to his apprenticeship at the smithy with Doc Brown—"

"You're a _blacksmith_?" asked the younger girl, enchanted. "Like in the old ballads?"

"I don't think blacksmiths have a way with the ladies like they used to," said the older girl, acerbically, tapping the younger one's shoulder with her fan. " _Do_ get your mind out of the Middle Ages for once, Irene. I'm so embarrassed I might leave you behind come Thursday."

"What _else_ have we got to do, Harriet?" Irene demanded, rounding on, damn, her older sister, why hadn't Marty seen the resemblance? "You're about as fun as a limp dishrag!"

"You got to see those convicts being loaded up," Annabel said placatingly. "Weren't they vile?"

"Mad Dog Tannen can rot in hell for all I care," Harriet declared, buffing her nails. "Despicable."

Irene turned her attention back to Marty, her hazel eyes gone doe-like. "Harry's just a sourpuss."

"I couldn't help but overhear the conversation," said Seamus, coming up from between the nearest two aisles. "Begging your pardon, but we ought not to wish that on him. Pray for his eternal soul."

 _Sometimes it's easy to forget how Catholic you are_ , Marty marveled, tipping his hat to Seamus. "I'm not the praying kind, but I'll hope he gets time to reflect if there's life after death."

"You and I know full well there's something after death," Seamus told him with severity. "And if Buford Tannen refuses Christ and His everlasting mercy, _well_. Good riddance to him."

 _Wonder if you're listening, Clara,_ Marty thought. _Kick his ass in the afterlife, will you?_

 

**September 30, 1885**

Marty wasn't in Seamus's barn this time, and he wasn't back out at the ravine, either. He was standing next to the scale model of Hill Valley, which Doc hadn't bothered to dismantle yet because locals had caught wind and started coming around to admire it, in the workshop part of the darkened smithy. They'd put away the miniature vehicle labeled _TIME MACHINE_ , although at this particular moment, Marty was holding it in both hands. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten it.

 _Pretty piece of work, that thing there you're holdin'_ , said a voice Marty thought he recognized, but which sent a shiver through him. _Miss Clayton here's been catchin' me up on everything I don't know. Seems you've got an awful lot of explaining to do, is that it?_

Marty looked up, startled to find Seamus and Clara standing across the expanse of the model from him. Seamus wasn't wearing his hat, and there was something about his clothing that seemed more urban and refined. His moustache had been more carefully trimmed, and he wore a bowtie.

 _So she's started dragging you into my dreams while we're both asleep, huh?_ Marty asked, addressing Seamus while Clara gave the ceiling a God-save-me-from-these-imbeciles look. He set the model DeLorean down, pushed it, and watched it coast along the replica train-tracks.

 _I'm sure I don't know what you mean_ , said Clara's companion. _I'm not asleep._

Marty had to catch the edge of the table on which the model had been set up; he hadn't known if it was possible to feel faint while dreaming, but apparently he was just as prone to toppling over here as in waking life. _You're—you're not Seamus, are you?_ he stammered. _You—you're—_

 _More dead than dreaming, you might say,_ said Martin McFly, with an apologetic smile.

 _I didn't know what to do_ , Clara said, shrugging. _Cautionary tales are cautionary tales, but there's nothing like hearing it from the horse's mouth. I thought you might like to meet him._

 _Warning would've been nice_ , said Marty, shakily. _Or, I don't know, an introduction._

 _Martin Arthur McFly_ , said Martin, offering Marty his hand across the table. _Charmed_.

 _Martin Seamus McFly_ , Marty sighed, accepting it. _I'm afraid this family recycles names like nobody's business. You can call me Marty. Nobody calls me Martin, not even my mother. I, ah—she never did, I mean. When she was still alive. I guess I was always more of a Marty._

 _All the family of ours I know on this side of living_ , remarked Martin, with amusement, as he let go of Marty's hand, _haven't the faintest clue who you are. We aren't in the business of producing orphans._

Clara gave Marty a reproachful look. _You can hide from Seamus, but this one's got loose lips_.

 _And I might just tell him what I know_ , said Martin. _Which is a lot, Marty my lad._

 _Are you blackmailing me into explaining to Seamus where I'm from?_ Marty demanded.

 _You're not the only one who's from far away_ , Clara reminded him. _There's Emmett._

 _Oh, and there's that,_ Martin said cheerfully. _I wanted to congratulate you in person._

Marty covered his face, pushing his fingertips into his eyelids. _I can't believe this!_ he groaned. _This has been kinda like the weirdest wedding party ever, you know that?_

Clara's laughter, sweet and forgiving, calmed him. _Then a wedding's what you'll have!_

Marty uncovered his eyes, blinking rapidly. He was lying on his back in bed, and, as per usual, Doc was already gone. He sat up, breathing fast, staring around the room. He was indisputably alone. His heart-rate hadn't slowed, and he realized abruptly that, as shaken as he felt, he was fucking _livid_ at Doc for not being there. He threw back the covers, realizing he was already conveniently in his long-johns, and struggled into the his clothing before rushing outside. Doc had, inexplicably, set up a kind of plywood scrim around the forge. That about _did_ it.

"I know you're back there, Doc!" Marty shouted, pounding on the scrim, causing it to shudder.

The sound of hammering from within stopped short, but nothing else about the situation changed. "Marty, what are you _doing_?" Doc demanded. "You'll topple the damn thing on me!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you never needed to hide before! What the _hell_ is going on?"

"I'm nearly finished with this job!" Doc shouted back. _Clang_. _Clang_. "Trust me!"

"I had another nightmare, Doc," Marty sighed, resting his palm against the scrim. "I'm outta here."

Behind him, Doc shouted something that sounded like a question, but Marty took off for the horses' enclosure at a run before Doc thought coming out to interrogate him was a good idea. He didn't even bother with a saddle, which was one of the unwisest decisions he'd ever made. Isaac was a level-headed gelding, though, and responded well to a bridle. He carried Marty off at a canter.

Maggie saw him coming from a distance, lingering at the well as Marty closed the distance between himself and the McFly farm. She had William tied to her back in a kind of makeshift fabric carrier; the baby had spotted Marty and was making excited gestures over his mother's shoulder.

"Sorry to turn up out of the blue, ma'am," Marty said, out of breath, touching the brim of his hat as he wheeled Isaac up just shy of Maggie and William. "Is your good-for-nothing husband around?"

Maggie's lips quirked at that, almost a half-smile. "Aye," she replied. "You'll find him in the barn."

Marty had to tether Isaac to a post outside the barn once he'd dismounted. The doors weren't open quite far enough, and he hadn't wanted to just ride in. Seamus was seated on an overturned fruit-crate, busy polishing his dismantled rifle while Miranda, his mare, periodically bumped her nose against his shoulder. Marty was surprised to find her out of the stall, apparently free to wander.

"Guess she's a good horse if you can give her run of the place," Marty said as Seamus looked up.

"Docile as a bird-dog," Seamus agreed, peering into the barrel of his gun, and stood up. He set both gun and rag down on the crate, dusting off his oil-smudged hands. "What brings you out here?"

"You can call me crazy all you want," Marty said, "but your brother was in my dream last night."

Seamus shrugged at him, remaining entirely unmoved. "What'd I tell you? Comes with the blood."

"Have you seen him lately?" Marty asked. "And have you met Clara Clayton? She was there, too."

"Clara's _your_ ghost," Seamus replied. "I wouldn't expect her unless somethin' was amiss."

"Since Martin is _your_ ghost," Marty pressed, "does _his_ visit to _me_ mean—"

"It means he wanted to meet you, most like," said Seamus, grinning. "He's a nosy fuckin' bastard."

"Oh," Marty said, relieved, collapsing onto the nearest thing he could find, which was a bale of hay in considerably better condition than the ones he'd slept in. "Well, that's...good, I guess. Yeah."

"Miss Clayton, though," said Seamus. "She pesters you when you're being thick as cotton-wool."

"She's pestering me because I _asked_ her to come back," Marty muttered. "Like an idiot."

Seamus widened his eyes, whistling under his breath. "You've got a handle on this, have you?"

"No!" Marty replied. "Nothing like that. The opposite, in fact. I'm in over my head with Doc, it's like..." Marty threw up his hands. "It's like sometimes we talk past each other. It's hardly been a month since we added the...ah, the new stuff, and sometimes I have to nag till I'm blue in the face!"

"Oh, _well_ ," said Seamus, too reasonably for Marty's liking. "That's just marriage, isn't it?"

"You and Clara are two peas on a pod, I wish she _would_ pay you a visit," Marty muttered.

"You've got to give it time, that's all," Seamus said, coming over to clap Marty on the shoulder. "Give it time to _settle_. Aye? Rome wasn't built in a day. And you'd said you and Emmett go way back, a few years' acquaintance at least, so try to remember what you've got to build on?

Marty nodded, feeling his heartbeat slow for the first time that morning. "You're way too level-headed for somebody who's seen the shit you've seen," he said, clasping Seamus's hand. "Thanks."

Seamus used the leverage to pull Marty to his feet, his head bowed, and it was the closest Marty had ever seen him to embarrassed. "Don't you get me used to all this flattery, now," he chided.

Marty might've run the risk of hugging him if Maggie hadn't come in at that moment with hands on hips, William fussing on her back. "Martin, you'd best get your _arse_ out there," she said irritably. "Doctor Brown's come ridin' to fetch you away. You left him in a right worried state!"

"So does he have everybody _else_ calling him Doc now, too?" Marty asked incredulously.

"No, _you've_ got everybody doin' that," Seamus replied. "Seems to suit him right enough."

"Thanks," Marty said, setting both hands on Maggie's shoulders as he passed her, brushing a swift kiss against her cheek. "You, too, Willie. Be good. No accidents while your mom's wearin' ya!"

"And a fine lot of good it'd do, tellin' a baby _that_!" Maggie shouted after him, but her voice was almost drowned out by the sound of Seamus's laughter and William's sudden, annoyed wailing.

Marty could see Doc lingering on Albert's back out along the fence-line, perhaps the point to which he'd felt safest retreating given Maggie's habitual ire. He rode fast to reach him, ignoring Isaac's contrary head-toss when Marty brought him to a halt beside Doc on the other horse's back.

"Sorry, Doc," Marty sighed, rubbing the side of his neck. "I needed to vent to _somebody_ , and Seamus seemed like the man for the job since you were busy. I didn't mean to get so nosy. Business is business. If some of your clients expect confidentiality, I should respect that."

Doc reached out to catch Marty's elbow, a curious urgency in his expression. "No, no," he said, waiting till Marty had steered Isaac into better alignment. " _I'm_ the one who's sorry." He let go of Marty's arm, raising his hand in that wait-a-moment gesture that usually meant some kind of huge revelation was imminent. He fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat, removing his closed fist.

"Those walks were odd, don't get me wrong," Marty said. "You usually wouldn't go without me."

Doc held out his fist, indicating Marty should extend his hand, too. "I had to find raw materials, and those were difficult to come by at best," he admitted, taking an unsteady breath as Marty extended his palm. "But I knew there had to be remnants out there. Meteorite is iron and nickel, mostly, as far as composition. Metals you can forge and hammer," he said, lowering his fist, opening his fingers with reluctance. "It's possible the sizing is all wrong, in which case..."

Marty stared at the two tiny objects that landed in his palm with a _clink_. He rolled them until they settled out, peering closer. Two circular fittings, flat bands burnished to a dull shine, one significantly smaller in circumference than the other. "What'll these do, exactly?" he asked.

" _Do_?" Doc echoed, looking troubled for the briefest of seconds before, seemingly, understanding what Marty had assumed. "Oh, these aren't pieces in some larger project," he explained, picking up the smaller one. "Give me your left hand," he said, and Marty didn't understand what was happening until his eyes began to sting as Doc slid it onto his finger.

"You're the biggest fucking romantic I have _ever_ —" Marty cut himself off, pressing one wrist-cuff to his wet cheek, grinning. After that, he didn't waste any time grabbing Doc's left hand, sliding the larger band into place. "What they _do_ is pretty important, don't you think?"

And if he'd noticed Seamus and Maggie stood watching on the porch, well, he wouldn't show it.


	3. Lodestar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Seamus knew something about the situation wasn't ordinary, knew it like blood couldn't help but know blood._
> 
>  
> 
> The illustration in this section, as ever, is by the inimitable Edgebug (whose lighting is not to be outdone).

**November 1, 1885**

There was something amiss with his surroundings, but Marty couldn't quite put his finger on it.

As he entered the saloon, wary of how fast and hard the doors swung shut behind him, he noticed how little resemblance this environment bore to Chester's establishment in Hill Valley. Beneath his poncho, he touched his gun-belt in anticipation, finding the Colt's hammer cocked.

This saloon was much busier, too, than Marty had ever seen the Palace. Chester got a rush on Monday mornings when the train came in (and sometimes on the odd Thursday, although that one didn't turn up anywhere near as reliably), but that was about it. The local crowd of a few old-timers was nothing in comparison to what he was seeing now, which was _dozens_ of people.

Marty hung back against the wall, to the right of the entrance, scanning the saloon's lower floor. If he was supposed to be meeting somebody, well, that kind of thing usually happened at the bar. _Especially in my world_ , he thought acerbically, studying the full half-hexagon that was the bar's seating gallery. Fifteen seats, two of them empty. Some kind of excitement down front.

Marty's eyes landed on the bowler-hatted gentleman's moustachioed profile. He did a double-take, pushing away from the wall before he could stop himself, lost in terrified fascination. Nobody brushing past him—or, indeed, anybody seated at the tables, past whom he brushed—seemed to take the slightest notice. By the time he was standing several feet away, he could hear the exchange.

"As I was sayin'," said the gentleman in the bowler hat, still in profile, and it was painfully obvious now that Marty was looking at either Seamus or Martin. "You seem to've misunderstood, that's all."

The taller, broad-brim-hatted figure to whom Marty's ancestor was speaking had his back to Marty, but his head was inclined just enough in the McFly twin's direction to reveal hair as golden-pale as the McFly's hair was copper. "And I say you're bluffin', smart-ass," he drawled. " _Prove_ it."

The bowler-hatted McFly glanced from side to side, plainly amused, and Marty found his ancestor's seeming lack of caution eminently disturbing. "Prove what to you, now, exactly?" he laughed.

"That you ain't too yeller," said the taller figure, leaning in close, "to admit what you was after."

What happened next happened so quickly that Marty didn't have sufficient time to react; he lunged in the same moment the taller figure lunged at the McFly twin, who'd raised a fist in readiness. _No, oh no, please, please God, please no!_ Marty pleaded, but he was tugged back by some bystander just as the scuffle, which had started in less time than it took to blink, ended.

Martin McFly sank to the floor, one bloody hand scrabbling at the nearest wooden stool-leg. The other had already found its way to the knife-handle sunk just above his fine silver belt-buckle.

 _Why'd you have to do that?_ Marty demanded, staring at Martin, wide-eyed, who stared just as desolately up at him. _Your brother's gonna have a—is this really happening, or am I—_

 _My brother?_ Martin choked, letting go of the stool-leg, running his red-slicked index finger along his lower lip. _You mean Seamus, Old Stick-in-the-Mud? Though you look an awful lot—_

Marty didn't get to Martin in time, yanked again from behind. Someone's strong hand fisted in the tail of his poncho. Someone jarred him back to wakefulness with a tug on his sweat-soaked sheets.

"Jesus!" Marty gasped, eyes flying open, struggling to disentangle himself from the bedclothes until he realized where he was and _who_ was tugging on the sheet twisted up his back and down over his shoulder like a shroud. " _Doc_ ," he panted, sagging as Doc sat down on the bed.

"Another one of those dreams?" Doc asked, helping Marty loosen the sheets' binding so Marty could roll onto his back and look up at him. "One of the ones where we go over the ravine?"

"No, that's not it," Marty sighed, rubbing at his forehead. "New one. Worse than that, maybe."

Doc's features—which were _filthy_ with dirt and grease smears, what the _hell_ —softened in even deeper concern. He let his hand, also filthy, rest carefully against Marty's chest, using the sheet as a buffer between his palm and Marty's flesh. "Would it help to tell me about it?"

Marty shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut again. The image of Martin, bloody and amazed, intoxicated, as-yet unaware that he was done for, sent a shiver down Marty's spine. "Not yet."

Doc bent and kissed Marty's eyelids; that was enough to send them fluttering open. "Whenever you're ready," he sighed, drawing back just enough to meet Marty's gaze. "I'm worried, Marty."

"I'm worried, too, Doc," Marty said, struggling to sit up. "It isn't even ten o'clock and you're covered in... _in_..." He gestured at the mess, which covered not only Doc's face and hands, but also his smock. "You're lucky the spare sheets are clean. I'm gonna have to change the bed."

"I'd hoped to surprise you, but here goes," said Doc, with a nervous grin. "We have running water!"

"That's great," Marty said, struggling to swing his legs over the side of the bed once Doc had gotten to his feet and stepped back to study the linen damages. "So I can wash these out in the tub?"

"Spigot works, as does the mechanism that re-routes to the shower-head," Doc replied. "One of the two sinks is connected to the system I've run up from the holding tank; in the meantime, we'd better hope the hydraulics pumping water up from the well hold. And that the well doesn't go dry."

For a moment, Marty forgot everything but all of the weeks upon manic _weeks_ Doc had put into this. "We haven't had any drought this winter so far," he said, crawling free of the covers, not terribly surprised to find he'd unbuttoned his long-johns and shoved down the upper half sometime during the night. He caught hold of Doc's elbows, which might've been the only parts of his arms that weren't completely covered in God-knew-what. "Maybe you ought to shower off, and then...?"

Doc shook his head ruefully, although he did hunch forward for a peck on the lips. "I've got to put a few finishing touches on this," he replied. "Could take a few more hours. Maybe tonight?"

"For a guy who was in hurry to get this shit underway so I wouldn't hold out on him," Marty said, working his arms back into the sleeves of his long-johns one at a time, "that's kinda disappointing."

"Come out and help if you'd like to, but I'd strongly warn against it," Doc said. "It's nothing I can't do on my own, and your tolerance for this level of soiling is...limited. Although I'd love company."

Marty shook his head, regarding Doc with genuine regret. "I think I'd better go and see Seamus."

Doc nodded slowly, but the way he wrung his hands in the hem of his smock gave him away. "It makes sense that you'd find confiding in him easier, if that's what you need to do. I understand."

"He reminds me of my dad," Marty lied, because, wow, what kind of bullshit was _that_? George had been a decent listener, but that was mostly because he was always staring at the TV. "It helps."

"Don't be gone too long," Doc said, already heading for the front door. "I've got dinner supplies."

"I'll be home to get it started," Marty promised, locating one of his cleaner shirts and the pair of trousers he'd shed the night before. "I don't want you anywhere _near_ the kitchen in that state."

"Which is a dire statement, given we haven't got a kitchen as such," Doc replied. "Be careful."

"I will," Marty said, fastening his gun-belt with a pat. "Careful's my middle name these days!"

His ride out to the McFly farm with Isaac was peaceful, went a long way toward soothing down the remainder of his jangling nerves. Isaac, accustomed to thinking of Marty as _his_ now, kept trying to crane his neck around. The horse's concern, although comical, seemed genuine.

"Don't you worry about it, boy," Marty told him, scratching between Isaac's ears as they strolled within view of the farm's perimeter fence. "Seamus is gonna help me figure this one out."

Seamus wasn't in the barn, and he wasn't in the house with Maggie, who shooed Marty right back outside because William was asleep, either. He was out back, hatless and shirtless, splitting wood with ruthless efficiency. Marty couldn't help but stare, but he remembered to remove his hat.

"We're a scrawny bunch, and no mistake," said Seamus, tugging his dangling shirt free of his trousers so he could use it to mop his brow. "What can I help you with, Marty? Marital troubles?"

"Nah, we're...actually, me and Doc, we're, _ah_..." Marty swallowed around the fierce, gut-consuming memory of several nights before. "Amazing," he managed, which was mostly true.

"Well, then, you've got one up on me at the moment," said Seamus, grimly matter-of-fact as he put his shirt back on. "Mags has got it in her head I'm a useless son-of-a-bitch, unprepared for winter."

"I hate to just _ask_ you this," said Marty, hesitantly, "but I had this dream last night, and I just—it's got me shaken, all right?" He fiddled with his belt-buckle. "How often do you see Martin?"

Seamus shrugged, tending to his buttons, but his narrowed eyes flitted to meet Marty's in undisguised concern. "He hasn't been gone long—but, mind you, it's been just long enough to seem like forever. I've dreamed of him five times, for all the good it's done me. Why do you ask?"

"Wait," Marty faltered, steadying himself against the house's rough timbers. "When did he die?"

"Twelfth of June, Year of Our Lord eighteen-hundred and eighty," Seamus replied, re-shouldering his suspenders, fixing Marty with an even more serious look. "Surely I'd already told you?"

"Five years," Marty echoed, voice raw, vision blurring. "You said you've seen him _five_..."

"Usually this time of year," said Seamus, approaching with hands outstretched. "It's like fairytale stuff if you think too hard, but the trick is, for us, all of it's true. I saw him last night. Did you?"

"No," Marty lied, wiping his eyes with one hand while he took hold of Seamus's with the other. "It's just that I'm—so afraid to lose him, Seamus," he managed, gasping. "I'm _so afraid_."

"Oh, _well_ ," Seamus crooned, yanking Marty into his arms without a second thought, rubbing Marty's back as if he were a fussy William. "We all fear losin' the ones we love. Aye. We do." He exhaled against the side of Marty's head, his breath hitching as if he, too, were in tears. "Stay for supper, now, why don't you? I've seen that project your devilish Doc's got on. It looks...involved."

"Did you ever find out who did it?" Marty gasped, clinging to Seamus with all his strength. "Who killed him, I mean?" The memory of wind, rain, and lightning-strike at George's would-be grave seized him with all the vivid terror of another nightmare. He remembered Einstein whimpering next to Doc's now non-existent headstone and felt sick to his stomach. "And where did it happen?"

"If it helps you to know particulars, I'll gladly tell you," said Seamus, softly. "Death isn't a thing best viewed in the abstract, is it? It happened in this place I'd told Martin to avoid any _number_ of times," he sighed. "No foppish cabaret, this one, like the rest of those dives in Gold Hill. The Lodestar, they called it. Rough and ready a place as they come. I did warn him."

"God, I'm sorry," Marty whispered, hugging Seamus tighter. "I'm _so sorry_. I never—"

"We gave him as decent a burial as we could manage," Seamus went on, giving Marty a tight squeeze before releasing him. "In the cemetery up at Silver Terrace. A right quiet affair, it was. There was one bystander, though, who claimed he'd caught Martin's last words," he continued, somber, lost in recollection. "Somethin' about Old Stick-in-the-Mud, that's what he always called me. And he was on about the man who'd stabbed him, who'd fled by then. Said he looked like..."

"Said he looked like?" prompted Marty, with his heart in his goddamn _throat_. "Seamus?"

"Martin never finished his sentence," Seamus sighed, "and wasn't that just like him, the joker. Not in five years of scattered dreams, the times I've asked him, would he tell me. Said it meant nothin'."

"Tell Maggie I'm sorry I can't stay for dinner," replied Marty, hastily. "I've gotta get out of here."

He drove Isaac hard the whole way back, hissing curses in a panic. _Clara, please cut the crap and help me with this_ , he thought, breathless. _I'm in even deeper than where you fell!_

 

**November 13, 1885**

Marty stared into his shot-glass, regarding the precious Guyana rum's depths with all the suspicion he could muster. Chester claimed he'd been saving it for a special occasion, and Seamus McFly's birthday counted as just such a one. Marty tried to ignore the fact that it had fallen on a Friday.

"Ain't gonna do no good if you keep glaring at it," said James, elbowing Marty in the left side, knocking his shot back in one swallow. "See? That's how it's _done_. You better catch up."

Doc, to Marty's right, had somehow managed to slurp down half of his own first shot without keeling over. "Try a sip," he suggested. "It's curiously pleasant, and I've felt no ill effects."

"Yet," muttered Marty, under his breath, drinking all of it down before Chester could join in the ribbing. Seamus, opposite Marty at the table, gave him an almost disappointed look. "Holy _jeez_ , what the hell's _in_ this stuff, lighter fluid?" he demanded, coughing.

"Lighter than _what_?" asked Seamus, laughing loudest of them all. "You're some first-class entertainment, cousin, for a man on his thirtieth! Even Emmett's with me on this one, I think."

Doc declined to answer, but, in solidarity, swallowed the remainder of his shot with a grimace.

"Now, gentlemen, just _look_ what you've done," Marty chided, taking Doc's shot-glass from him as Doc coughed wide-eyed through the awful burn of it. "He'll pass out before I can get him home!"

"I've come a long way toward handling my liquor," Doc insisted stoically, but he'd turned pale.

"To be fair, we got through the red-eye back in September without incident," Marty agreed, knowing he'd better have Doc's back just as firmly as Doc had his. "Maybe there's truth in that."

"You city boys have both come a long way, I'll freely admit," Chester called from the bar, wiping it down with long, even strokes. "Now, _Seamus_ ," he said warningly. "Your glass ain't empty."

"What fine, upstanding influences you lot are," Seamus said, raising his shot-glass to catch light glinting off one of the dingy chandeliers overhead. The rum in it glowed red-gold, rich as blood. "Here's to bygones, which I pray keep as they are," he said. "And to the future, come what will."

Marty watched in disbelief while Seamus downed the shot as if it were no more than clear water.

"Trust an Irishman to show you how it's done," said James, grimly, breaking into sincere applause.

Doc, noticeably tipsy, turned his head away from Seamus and raised his eyebrows at Marty. "I'd never taken your father's forebears for prodigious drinkers. Seems my hypothesis was wrong." He made a thoughtful sound that made Marty want to kiss him. "Now, your _mother's_..."

"Just because I don't often indulge doesn't mean I can't drink you all under the table," Seamus sniffed. "And just because Mags doesn't approve doesn't mean _she_ can't drink _me_ —"

The saloon doors swung shut with a clatter, causing all five of them to sober up in a hurry. Maggie stood there, as if she'd been summoned, with Annabel Lee clinging to one of her arms while _she_ clung to William with the other. Both women looked more worried than furious.

"Speak of the angel herself," said Seamus, rising, removing his hat. "And a cherub besides."

"I'll have none of your sweet-talk, you reckless hooligan," Maggie snapped. "There's bad news come in with yesterday's train from San Francisco, and none of you will like it. Sit _down_."

Seamus immediately did as she'd bidden, but he reached for the rum bottle while he was at it.

"Good thinking," said Annabel, letting go of Maggie's arm, rushing to James's side. She took the bottle once Seamus had twice filled his glass and emptied it, taking a swig directly from the lip. "We hate to be the bearers of bad news, _truly_ we do," she said shakily, handing the bottle to Chester, who'd rushed out from behind the bar to collect it, "but Buford's done escaped from jail."

"This can't be happening," Marty said, wishing Chester hadn't taken the rum. "I know they've actually bothered to try him for the lives he's taken—" _that, you know, actually count as lives before this country's current fucked-up laws_ "—and that's a lot of damn trials, at least one a week since they've taken him away with more still to go, but surely they've been _careful_ —"

"They've been careful transporting him to and from the courthouse," said Maggie, marching over to smack Seamus upside the head, "but now that he's recovered from that shot you dealt him, Mr. Wilson, they haven't been careful _enough_. He's up and escaped with one of his men."

"Three guesses as to which, first two don't count," Doc muttered under his breath, seeking one of Marty's hands beneath the table; Marty caught hold of Doc's fingers and squeezed them.

"Did you get that from me?" Marty asked under his breath, leaning close out of sheer instinct and fear, glad for once that all the assembled company were, even if not spoken as such, in the know.

"Somewhere along the line," Doc slurred. "But Marty, this is serious. Our lives, _all_ our lives, could be in danger. I'm afraid for James, certainly, but I'm afraid for you above all."

"It's your own damn skin you ought to be afraid for!" Marty shouted. "He was after you to begin with, remember? Back at the dance, before I even got involved. And he was still carrying on about blowing your brains out before they towed him out of here! _That's_ what's serious, Doc!"

Annabel was staring at Marty, sympathetic but tight-lipped. "I'd best go warn Jonas and Zeke."

"Jesus, yeah," Marty said, torn between clinging to Doc and going with her. "Where's Zhihao?"

"Gone," said James, "so don't you worry about him. He's up in Grass Valley to see his daughter."

"If that girl knows what's good for her old poppa, she'll keep him," Chester replied, beckoning a grave-faced Joey away from the kitchen entrance. "Come on out here, son. You oughta know."

"I knew it already," said Joey, wiping his hands off on a rag. "Didn't want to cause no scare."

"Well, a scare's what we need," said Maggie, bouncing William, who'd begun to fuss. "If we haven't got our God-given wits about us, what good's any of it? Seamus, it's time to go."

"Right," said Seamus, heavily, placing his hat back on his head. He regarded Marty and Doc as he got to his feet, lips twisting with some inner conflict. "You come calling if you need me, you hear?"

"You know I'd come even if I didn't," Marty told him, forcing a smile past the buzzing swarm of anxiety that had gathered behind his eyes. "It's your birthday, Seamus. Many happy returns."

Seamus exchanged emotion-laden glances with Maggie; both of them startled Marty when they broke into a brief, fretful exchange of what could only have been Gaelic. He'd never heard them use it before, not even to squabble between themselves the many times he'd been alone with them.

"Listen to what a dirge we've made of this joyous occasion," Seamus said, raising his voice, turning back to the population of the table. His eyes swept to the side, including Chester and Joey in his address. "Fuckin' _terrible_ , if you'll pardon my sayin' so. Hold your _tongue_ , Mags, it's the rum that's talkin'. Anyway, what I'd like to get across is that you're all most welcome at our table. There wouldn't be much to go around, but if Marty and this here blacksmith fellow would be so kind as to get their guns and come with me, we just _might_ have enough by evening."

"And there's safety in numbers," Maggie insisted, catching hold of her husband's arm. " _So_."

"I'll go shooting with you, Seamus," said Doc, clearing his throat, "and Marty will go with Mr. Wilson and Miss Linton to warn anyone else at immediate risk. We'll see each other tonight."

Marty nodded to Annabel and James, grateful to have been given permission. "Like he says."

"Go help Doc Brown saddle up his horse," Seamus said to Marty, making it sound strangely like an order. "I've got directions and such to parcel out to this lot. Maybe we'll make a pot-luck of it."

Marty rushed ahead of Doc's long strides, knowing he'd struggle to keep up. Outside, once they'd dashed across the way to the smithy and fetched the horses' gear, Marty pinned Doc against the shadow-side of their stacked hay bales and kissed him harder than either of them could stand.

"We survived this asshole once," said Marty, desperate and determined. "We'll survive him again."

"We've already survived far more than the continuum thought would kill us," agreed Doc, dazed.

"Don't you go all fatalistic on me, Doc," Marty said, tapping the inner plane of Doc's hand-forged ring with the pad of his thumb. He pressed the back of his left hand to Doc's lips; the kiss fell exactly where Marty knew it would leave a smudge on the dark, shining metal. "We _will_."

 

**November 26, 1885**

There was a lone tree out amidst the graves, silhouetted against the dark blue twilight. Marty made for it with purpose, kicking rocks and scrub-brush out of his way as he went. He wasn't afraid.

 _Thirteen days, Martin,_ he said to the darkness, words piercing in the windswept silence.

 _Aye_ , said Martin, materializing against the tree-trunk, arms folded across his chest. _Thirteen days since the news reached Hill Valley; thirteen days without a whisper of threat_.

 _Are you saying that's your doing?_ Marty asked. _You're our guardian angel, huh?_

 _Whatever my brother may say about his sainted wife_ , said Martin, examining his fingernails, _I doubt she's much good with a gun. Unless he's gone and taught her?_

 _I don't know if Maggie can shoot or not_ , Marty told him, starting to lose his patience. _And where the hell has Clara been, anyway? She really gets around. Have you seen her?_

 _Oh, she's been droppin' by with all manner of suitors for me,_ replied Martin, finally glancing up at Marty, grinning. _You should see the fancy dead lads she tows out here from Europe._

 _Great, she's still playing matchmaker from the back of beyond_ , Marty muttered, chipping at the sandy soil with the toe of his boot. _Look, I wish this was a social call, but it's really not. I need to ask you a few questions about the night you died. I need to know why you let me dream—_

 _Let you dream what?_ said Martin, his feigned innocence almost convincing. It was such a reasonable facsimile of Seamus's unfailingly genuine disbelief, in fact, that Marty almost bought it.

 _Let me dream about the night you died_ , Marty challenged. _You let me see it happen._

 _Ah_ , Martin said, nodding with slow, regretful contempt. _I was afraid we'd be getting to that all too soon. You see, the trouble I've got here is that you're accusin' me of somethin' in which I had no part. I didn't_ let _you see what you saw, Marty my lad. You just plain saw it._

 _I don't understand_ , Marty said, stepping closer to Martin, his temper increasingly short. _The guy who stuck that knife in your belly might've been Mad Dog, for all I could tell. And if it was him, Martin, believe me. I'd like to know. I'd like to know so I can be the one to kill him._

 _You're barking up the wrong tree, boy,_ Martin sneered, his flare of anger so sudden that his eyes gleamed eerie blue in the starlight. Marty shuffled backward a bit, spooked, but that didn't deter Martin's sudden advance on him. _You oughtn't go bloodying your hands like I so often did; it leads to nothin' but grief, can't you get it through your skull! It's the lyin' I hate most._

Marty stumbled and fell, landing hard on his tailbone. _The—lying?_ he wheezed.

 _You've been lying to my brother ever since you met him_ , Martin seethed, dropping to a crouch beside Marty with shocking, predatory grace. _And you lied about bein' there_.

 _About—being there?_ Marty gritted out, scooting back. _Martin, I swear I don't—_

 _I saw you at the Lodestar_ , Martin hissed, moonlight catching his pallid features. For the first time in several months of seeing ghosts, Marty was scared shitless. _When I died_.

Marty woke up screaming, but the bed was empty. Wherever Doc was, he didn't come running.

The shower ran as cold as the nighttime air had been at Silver Terrace, as it would seem Doc hadn't quite worked the bugs out of getting the water sufficiently heated in time for a bathing session that had to be kept quick. Teeth chattering, chilled down to the bone, Marty dried off, got dressed, and left his sweat-drenched laundry to soak in the tub. He went outside, walked the whole perimeter, but Doc was nowhere to be found. There was no sign of a note, which wasn't like him.

Much to Marty's dismay, it was nearly noon. He tried the saloon first, but Chester hadn't seen Doc all morning. He poked his head into the Post Office and the jail, where James didn't have a clue about Doc's whereabouts, either. Finally, at Linton Mercantile, Annabel spilled the beans.

"He bought some flowers in here half an hour ago," she said. "Last bunch I had from them winter purples I picked the other morning after it rained. They'd withered somethin' awful. Marty, I—"

"It's all right," Marty sighed, absolving her with a wave. "I know where he's gone, and why, too."

By the time Marty reached Boot Hill, Doc had wandered out beyond Clara's stone and was ambling aimless, worried circles with his hands clasped behind his back. Marty crouched to examine the bunch of wilted blooms that Doc had left in the damp earth at the foot of Clara's grave.

"I know it's the dreams, I keep him up nights," Marty told her. "I dream he goes over, I dream we both go over; I dream it's you, and I scream till I'm blue in the face. And last night, it was Martin."

Marty hadn't kept the sound of his voice low enough. Doc had taken notice and was heading back.

 _Listen to me, Clara,_ he pleaded. _I need your ass here as soon as you can manage, got it?_

Wordlessly, Doc helped Marty to his feet. He removed his duster as the wind picked up, wrapping it around Marty's shoulders. "Why in the world would you come out here without your poncho?"

Marty folded into Doc, clinging to Doc just as hard as Doc was clinging to him. "I needed you."

"What you _need_ is to tell me what the hell you've been dreaming about," Doc insisted.

"How about I do that on the way home?" Marty suggested, trying to make room for Doc under the coat, but it was no use. "And then we go back to bed, because, _um_. I really hate to say it, Doc, but you could use some more incentive to get that hot water situation up and functional."

Doc seemed skeptical about the ghosts, seemed to doubt that any such manifestations could be anything _other_ than aspects of Marty's tortured conscience. Marty didn't mind that, he supposed, but what he could've done without was Doc chiding Seamus, who was absent, for encouraging the fantasy. Which brought them around to the whole nasty business of lying.

"Seamus _has_ proved unusually perceptive," Doc allowed. "Given his impressive penchant for belief in the supernatural, he'd likely take to the truth better than you think. Perhaps that would extinguish the guilt you've been experiencing, and these so-called ghosts would leave you alone."

"Know what?" Marty sighed, squeezing Doc's hand. "You and Martin are right. It's worth a try."

 

**December 12, 1885**

The headlines that had begun to roll in weren't encouraging. Rather than the expected rash of hold-ups and killings, there'd been anything _but_. Mad Dog Tannen had gone off the radar, and, with him, any hope of understanding how best to remain on their guard. People claimed to be staying indoors on account of the weather, but everyone knew the truth.

Seamus and Maggie had quarantined the farm because William was down with a suspected case of whooping cough.

Meanwhile, Marty woke to the sound of rain on the eaves, warm and content in his nest of covers. The hot water had been working for several days now, and the rain had seen to it that they'd had a nearly unlimited supply. He rolled over and cuddled up against Doc's back, nuzzling between Doc's shoulder blades while Doc stirred. It was nice to abandon worry over whether he'd be there or not.

" _Mmm_ ," Marty sighed in Doc's ear, tightening his arm around Doc's middle. "I want you."

"I wouldn't mind that," murmured Doc, distinctly apologetic, guiding Marty's hand down to where— _hmmm_ , yeah. Not much was going on. "I think that last night you managed to..." Nonetheless, he made a pleased sound as Marty stroked him. "Maybe if you provided stimulation from a slightly...different, more _complicated_ angle..."

Marty's pulse sped up, and his cock twitched where it was already nestled up against Doc. "You sure about that?" Marty ventured, licking Doc's earlobe, giving it an experimental nip. "I didn't do so hot the first time. A little over a month ago, remember? Didn't even last five minutes."

"You didn't last much longer when you asked me to return the favor, either," Doc replied, reaching for the bottle on the bedside table. "It's worth trying again, but only if you'd like to—"

"Jeez," Marty panted, snatching the bottle, almost jostling the stopper free. "What part of _I want you_ didn't you understand? I thought from your indirect, yet clever invitation, maybe you'd—"

"Too much talking," chided Doc and Marty had never been so glad to have some of his own words flung back in his face. "Now, are you going to—" Doc's breath hitched mid-sentence "—get on with this, or—"

"Wow," Marty sighed, happily kissing the back of Doc's neck, getting his fingers just slick enough before handing it back so Doc could set it at the ready. "Have I mentioned how cute it is that you can't get that word past your teeth yet? Because it's adorable," he added, pleased to hear Doc's gasp when his fingers slid—one, then two, careful, _so_ careful—to do as Doc had suggested.

"Get me to the point it'd be worth using, Future Boy," Doc gasped, "and _then_ we'll talk."

Marty was infinitely grateful that Doc knew his body well enough to instruct Marty in most of its timing complexities, because Marty, admittedly, would've been lost. It took about ten or fifteen minutes of unhurried, but persistent finger-work to get Doc up to speed. Marty removed his hand, but not before pressing his palm to the small of Doc's back, rubbing one slow, pleased circle.

"Change of plans," he whispered in Doc's ear, tugging at the pillows, forcing them up above their heads. "Sit up?" he asked, glancing over at the shutters above the desk. Sunlight had begun to filter in, and the rain had eased off. Before long, the mauve-tinted glow would reach them. "There."

Doc, newly propped up against his decadent throne of pillows, gave Marty a questioning look, but Marty leaned forward and kissed it right off his face. He reached for the bottle while he was at it, just barely managing to wrangle the stopper out one-handed. It fell on the floor with a clatter; Doc made a disapproving sound against Marty's mouth, but he didn't stop kissing him.

"I don't know what you—" Doc slid his clever tongue along Marty's lower lip "—think you're—"

"Would you just sit the fuck back and _relax_ ," Marty groaned, breaking the kiss, getting down to business slicking Doc's straining erection. "These old windows out here, like...it's really hard to explain, but there's something really different about the glass? Like it's thin slices of that pink stone, only really clear, you know, the one you had in that experiment? Rose quartz, or—"

"Glass in this time and place is, let's say, still a throwback to much earlier production methods," Doc said shakily, watching the progress of Marty's fingers as he switched from working on Doc to—awkwardly, reaching behind himself, finding the angle a _bitch_ —working on himself. "Quintana's father traveled to Europe as a young man and trained as a glazier there. He then passed his methods on to her, so it has something to do with the lead content and—"

"You can draw up the formula for me later if it makes you happy, okay?" Marty said, bracing himself on Doc's shoulders while he got into position. "Just—pay attention, Doc. Help me out."

"The formula won't be necessary," Doc murmured, keeping a gentle hold on Marty's hips as he lowered himself those dizzying last few inches, "because I don't—even understand it my— _self_." 

Marty rested his forehead against Doc's, breathing hard. "Fuck," he breathed. "That's really good, huh?" With a lazy, experimental roll of his hips, he left them both gasping. " _Fuck_."

Doc nodded, nuzzling Marty's cheek, the swift rise and fall of his chest all the evidence Marty needed. "Don't go—" _wow_ , Doc couldn't even get the words out "—too fast, I— _ah_ —"

" _Shhh_ , hey, Doc," Marty murmured, winding his arms around Doc's neck. "I won't."

"You're a marvel," Doc whispered, and, _mmm_ , kissing was a great distraction from the fact that they were both tipping a lot closer to climax than they'd like. "What do you want me to do?"

"Honestly?" Marty said, loving the warm, protective ache those words ignited in his chest as the first slats of sunlight washed languidly over them. "Just sit back and enjoy this as much as I am."

For all the stopping and starting and laughing and _basking_ , twenty-two minutes wasn't bad.

Afterward, cleaned-up and tangled in the sheets, they went back to sleep. Marty knew better than to think he'd have uninterrupted rest; no sooner had he drifted off than the sensation of a light breeze hit his cheek. He blinked at his surroundings, adjusting quickly. Silver Terrace looked less forbidding by daylight, but maybe he had Quintana's glasswork to thank for setting the scene.

Clara stood in the shade of the solitary tree's branches, intently beckoning, so Marty went to her.

 _Martin is sorry he couldn't be here to join our chat_ , she said, folding Marty in an unexpected embrace. _He's taken remarkably well to these tête-à-têtes I've been scheduling for him._

 _Who have you set him up with?_ Marty asked, releasing her. _That's what we call it._

 _Any late individual who's of the bachelor-on-bachelor bent, quite frankly,_ said Clara, stifling a yawn. _It's the most tedious business I've ever embarked upon. He's pickier than Emmett._

 _I guess I'll have to ask Martin for names and gossip later_ , Marty sighed. _Clara, I've got a problem. He's mad at me because—well, shit, because of a lot. I kinda let slip that I wanted to kill Mad Dog before he could kill Doc or anybody else, and I've also been lying to his brother._

 _Oh, Marty,_ Clara sighed. _I warned you about this, didn't I? It's only come to grief_.

 _And then there was all this weird business with that dream where I saw him die_ , Marty said.

Clara nodded in sympathy. _I imagine that, after watching me go, it must've been very hard._

 _The trouble is_ , Marty admitted, rubbing his neck, _Martin thinks I was actually there_.

 _For all we know, maybe you were,_ replied Clara. _You're a time traveler, aren't you?_

 _Yeah?_ Marty asked, too stunned to properly react. _But it's never worked like that._

 _Maybe it works like that now_ , Clara said, tapping the side of her nose, winking. _There are more things in heaven and earth? If I recall our early meetings, you know your Shakespeare._

 _I know my Jules Verne now, too,_ Marty told her, swallowing hard. _Thought you'd like to know so that we, uh, maybe have something else to talk about besides how fucked-up this situation is._

 _I'm not actually in the mood for literary conversation,_ Clara sighed, _so I hope you'll forgive the quotes from Macbeth and Hamlet, and who knows what-all else is clacking around in this head of mine. What's important is that Emmett and Martin have knocked sense into you._

 _I have to tell Seamus, then,_ Marty sighed. _It can't stay bygone like his elaborate toast._

 _With you and yours, there are none,_ Clara chided. _Has there been progress on your return?_

 _To where?_ Marty asked, mystified, shading his eyes as the sun rolled higher. _To the McFly farm, or to the future? If the former, no; the baby's been sick. If the latter, also no._

Smiling sadly, Clara stroked his cheek. _I think you know by now you won't make it back._

 _Given the way we've focused on building a home here at the expense of all else, yeah,_ Marty agreed, wistfully returning her smile. _I think it's safe to say Doc and I both know._

 _It all depended on me_ , Clara said softly, _and I didn't have the heart to tell you. Whether it was one of you successfully rescuing me so that the chain of events would've unfolded differently, or..._ She trailed off. _To put it plainly, I understand how to adapt the technology of this century more thoroughly than Emmett ever will. And any intervention here would be useless._

 _Why?_ Marty asked. _You don't believe I could relay the information accurately?_

 _Because I could write it all down for you, equation after equation in perfect succession for pages on end,_ said Clara, apologetically, _and all that paper would vanish the moment you woke._

 _I, ah, wouldn't be able to memorize it,_ Marty sighed, defeated. _Because yeah, nope_. He scrutinized her expression, wondering how much of it indicated regret. _What about Doc, though? Why couldn't you just, I don't know, visit his dreams and transmit the information?_

 _Because,_ Clara murmured, tilting Marty's chin up, _he doesn't believe I exist._

Marty woke with a start, rubbing the exact spot on his chin that Clara's index and middle fingers had just touched. He lifted his head to study Doc, who wasn't actually asleep. Doc yawned.

"Hey," Marty said, leaning in to brush a kiss against Doc's nose. "I've been thinking."

"About what?" Doc ventured, threading his fingers through Marty's hair. "Tell me."

"I don't think we're ever gonna make it back," said Marty, soberly. "And I want you to know that... _Doc_ , look. It's okay. It's been tough, it's gonna _be_ tough, but—I can't help but think we're gonna be fine?" Marty chewed his lip as the next thought came crashing down on his head in all its breathtaking, tragic glory. "One day, we'll be here again, at least in theory. Not for very long, but we'll be here, and the us that'll be here will make sure we get _here_ here, and..." And, yep, that was when the tears came, because _fuck_. "And I'm so glad."

Marty had never seen Doc cry before, not beyond the fleeting suggestion of tears in his eyes, but he supposed that there was a first time for everything. And that seemed like a fitting place to start.

 

**December 20 - 21, 1885**

Marty frowned, but he stood his ground, digging his heel into the packed-earth floor of Seamus's barn. "Am I gonna have to repeat everything I just said to you?" he asked incredulously. "Or—"

"Bullshit," Seamus said again, arms folded across his chest, eyes unconvincingly defiant. "I don't believe a goddamned _word_ that just came out of your lyin' mouth, and _furthermore_ —"

"You know, that was kinda creepy," Marty said, flabbergasted. "You did a pretty good impression of your own grandson just now. Yeah, Artie? You haven't met him yet. Arthur. Willie's son."

"Your father's father, is that what you're goin' to be tellin' me next?" Seamus demanded, and Marty could tell by the twitch at the corner of Seamus's eye that his resolve was faltering. "Is it?"

"Yeah," said Marty, swallowing hard, with an earnest nod. "Arthur McFly is my grandfather."

Seamus closed his eyes, groaned, and rubbed his temples. "Oh, if only _my_ grandfather could hear you now. Well, maybe he _can_ , at that. I'm now gettin' comeuppance for havin' believed all _his_ tall tales hook, line, and sinker, but what was I to do? I dream about fuckin' _spirits_. I say my prayers and keep my head down, hopin' it'll pass even as the years do."

"Clara says there's no such thing as bygones, not in our family," Marty told him. "I believe it."

"And you believe everything I've told you, and everything you've told _me_ , too?" Seamus asked, opening his eyes again. He stared at Marty in wonder, as if seeing him for the first time. "Oh, Marty my lad. I'm sorry. It's just that it strains the heart so. You'd hardly want this."

"I believe in everything now, maybe," Marty said quietly. "Science. Life after death, or at least in the minds of those to whom we matter most," he admitted, "and who's to say that's not real?"

"Not the Almighty, that's for certain," said Seamus, crossing himself. "Lord, where's that addle-headed late brother of mine? I'll kick him back to this side of eternity next time I see him. _It meant nothin'_ , my arse. Those last words of his—you heard 'em, too, didn't you?"

"He was looking straight at me," Marty replied, feeling the last of the cold knot in his chest come undone. "I thought I was dreaming. It's just—when _we_ dream, it's—complicated?"

"My grandfather would love this!" Seamus crowed, suddenly laughing so hard there were tears streaming down his cheeks. "He'd love _you_ , Martin Seamus. Christ, with names like that..."

"I didn't stand a _chance_ at normal," Marty agreed, laughing with him. "Not with names like that."

"You must listen to me now," said Seamus, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, sobering as quickly as he'd cracked. "If you're still out on that train first thing tomorrow morning, that mad supply-run Doc was blatherin' on and on about, for your miraculous indoor toilet and God knows what-all else..." He frowned, setting his hands on Marty's shoulders, shaking him. "Don't let him out of your sight. I don't trust Buford Tannen not to have left the city, do you see? He's lying low."

Marty felt the cold knot return. "Oh, Jesus," he said. " _No_. Why didn't I realize—"

"Be on your guard so that no harm comes to either of you," Seamus murmured, making the sign of the cross again, only over Marty this time, leaning to kiss Marty's forehead. "Codladh sámh."

"Grandpa Arthur used to say that at bedtime," Marty mused. "He said it meant _sleep well_."

"And so it does," replied Seamus, levelly, leading them back outside, "and so I hope you will."

They got back inside just in time to find Doc and Maggie, as per usual, arguing over her approach with regard to the preparation of Doc's bastardized versions of his mother's recipes. In this instance, Maggie's vastly superior experience in the culinary handling of venison appeared to be winning out. Marty caught Doc by the back of his waistcoat and yanked him back from the stove.

"If you don't leave her the hell alone," said Marty, "I won't—look. You _know_ what I won't."

"Your methods aren't entirely orthodox," said Doc, with a tired smile. "In case you weren't aware."

The evening went well enough past that point, unless you didn't count the part where William fell asleep on Doc's shoulder and then woke up screaming his head off when it was time for them to go. Maggie shushed him violently, giving Marty and Doc each an early, heartfelt holiday kiss on the cheek. With that, she left the room, William's wails echoing long and loud behind her.

"I wish you'd be back in time to eat with us Christmas Day," said Seamus, opening the front door for them, "but I suppose I'll be seein' you soon enough. In the New Year, you said, was that it?"

"We'll be back on January 4th, bright and early," Doc confirmed. "The Thursday train won't run."

"Eighteen-hundred and eighty six," Seamus said, shifting his glance to Marty, lowering his voice. "And you didn't even get to see _nineteen_ -hundred and eighty six, as I understand it?"

Marty grinned at Seamus, enjoying Doc's gobsmacked, yet relieved expression. "No, we didn't."

"Well," Seamus said, shooing them out the door, "may there be wonders enough to hold you here!"

Marty was grateful Doc had forced them to pack before heading to the McFly farm; Marty was so tired by the time they'd ridden home that he collapsed almost immediately. Doc's bells-and-whistles alarm special woke them up far too early the next morning, although the certainty of a hot shower helped. The train's passenger car was more comfortable than the modern trains Marty had been on. The scenery, as it rolled by them, was _breathtaking_. They slept on each other's shoulders at intervals, hidden well out of view in their first-class compartment. The trip took ten hours.

They didn't make it to their lodgings on Pacific Street until eight o'clock. On hopping out of the buckboard they'd hired, Marty took one look at their general surroundings and said, "Doc, I'm beginning to question your judgment here. This is...more or less the Red Light district, isn't it?"

"I don't think they'll have taught you anything about the Barbary Coast in history class at school," said Doc, in a low voice, tipping the driver more liberally than he ought to have done, "but, in essence? Yes. However, this particular establishment is considered _very_ reputable in comparison to the ones just a few parallel streets over. We won't want to stray too far."

"Then again," Marty said, taking up Doc's valise along with his own before Doc could protest, "wait a second, no I _don't_ question it. We're gonna be a hell of a lot, ah. Safer here, aren't we?"

"Precisely!" Doc said, bringing his conspiratorial glee down a notch as he followed Marty inside.

Installed in their room, with the heavy brocade curtains drawn, Marty picked off Doc's traveling clothes piece by piece, and then proceeded to do the same with his own. He didn't have the patience for anything slow; he was tired and hungry, they were _both_ tired and hungry, but a swift roll in the sheets and an hour-long nap _did_ take the edge off. They ventured out past dusk.

"This is some kind of honeymoon, Doc," Marty remarked, peering in garishly-lit doorway after doorway of every gambling house, hotel, and saloon they passed. "Who else from my generation, or from _yours_ , for that matter, can say they got to see nineteenth-century Chinatown?"

"I'll refrain from mentioning the generations just _before_ mine," Doc remarked wryly, "but, yes, your point stands. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, just as seeing the rest of this country by rail and riverboat and every other means _possible_ will be. How's that?"

"Can we track down Mark Twain on his next lecture tour?" Marty asked. "I always liked his stuff."

"That shouldn't be too difficult," said Doc, cheerfully, pointing at the next place they came across. "This one shouldn't be too bad, if Chester's to be believed, and—anyway, he likes the food here."

"I'll trust Chester's taste in food before I'll trust almost anyone else's in Hill Valley, Doc," said Marty, grinning, "no offense. At least not until the Caruthers outfit gets set up in earnest."

"No offense taken," Doc said, holding the door open for Marty. "And here's our first glimpse—"

"At total fucking chaos," Marty said under his breath as a blast of cabaret music slammed his ears.

"They don't call this part of town the Paris of America for nothing!" Doc said, raising his voice loudly enough to be heard over the performance onstage. Nobody paid him the slightest bit of attention. "Well—more properly the end we're staying in, but Chinatown gives way to the Coast gives way to—" Doc took Marty by the arm, pulling him aside as several giggling, intoxicated young women pushed their way past. " _Well_. We'll get a feel for it soon enough."

"I hate to say this, but we're better off at the bar!" Marty shouted. "Farther from the stage, less reason to shout!" He tugged Doc in the direction of the glimmering bottles, marble countertop, and a pair of just-abandoned stools. "How about that, huh? It's like this was meant to be!"

"You sit tight," Doc said once Marty had hopped up onto one of the stools. "I'll ask about ordering."

"Just as long as you don't wander anywhere I can't see, fine," Marty agreed, pointing to where the bartender was serving someone at the far end. "If you get lost in the crowd, I'm coming after you."

"I won't be a moment," Doc reassured him, one hand lingering a thrilling moment too long on Marty's thigh. "Our options'll be limited, of course, so I'll just find out what comes recommended."

A second server popped up from behind the bar almost directly in front of Marty; clearly, she'd been busy filling someone else's order. She slammed the shot-glass down in front of the guy next to Marty, taking his payment with practiced, seductive ease. She turned to Marty next, looking him up and down, her eyes—so dark as to be nearly black, Marty realized—taking on fresh shine.

"What can I get _you_ , handsome fella?" she asked kindly. "Hey, you Irish? You look Irish."

Marty gawped at her. "Well, I—kinda?" he said, impressed. "Sure. A couple of generations back."

"I call 'em like I see 'em," said the bartender, already pouring something into a glass, followed by _another_ something. "Here's a treat, sugar. They got this out in New Or _leans_."

"What is it?" Marty asked, paying the price she asked without complaining. "Has it got a name?"

"That there," said a voice from behind Marty, in tandem with the flat of something cold and hard pressed right up against his back, "they call a _Sazerac_. Don't they, darlin'?" said the voice's owner, blowing a sickening kiss. "You run along. I got business with this here Mick."

Marty took his glass in both shaking hands, taking as slow and calm a swig as he could manage. The stuff burned, had whiskey and who-knew-what-else in it. He scanned the bar desperately, trying to remain calm, but Doc was nowhere in sight. The flat-something pressed up between his shoulder blades became a sharp, needle-thin point as his assailant's other hand came up to brace his ribcage almost tenderly. He sat frozen, taking another swallow. "Didn't think I'd see you," he said.

"Don't _nobody_ think they'll see me these days, you good-for-nothin'..." Buford, leering around now so that Marty could see his clean-shaven face and chestnut-dyed hair, dug the knife-point in a little harder, maybe enough to draw a pinprick of blood. "If you blow my cover and turn me in, I'll kill you. I got me a _wife_ now, if'n you can believe. We're savin' up to leave this dump, maybe head on out East. What do you think, pretty-boy? Or should I just slit your throat?"

Marty couldn't breathe, couldn't even believe what he was hearing. "I don't know if this does you _any_ good," he said thinly, "but do you remember what I said that one time about gentlemen and knives?" He set down his cocktail, a respite, spotting Doc out of the corner of his eye.

Buford gave a quiet snarl, withdrawing the blade as quickly as he'd applied it. "You ain't seen me, McFly," he growled as Doc, whose eyes widened as he realized what he was witnessing, approached. "That goes for you, too, Blacksmith," he said, jabbing Doc in the chest with the Bowie knife's handle. "No more trouble from here on out," he said, giving Marty a hard shove into Doc's arms, backing away fast through the crowd. "We're all gonna be _friends_ now, you hear!"

Shaking, Marty clung to unashamedly to Doc, burrowing against him. "Doc, that was—I think—"

"That was a second chance, Marty," Doc said, holding him close, "and I think we should take it."

"No kidding," Marty replied, letting Doc help him back onto his stool. "I think we should, too."


End file.
